Winded, she fired again, fought her way to a crouch. Her blood froze when a swarm within the swarm peeled off, arrowed toward her.

Not enough bullets, she thought, but made what she had count. She rolled, slowed to a crawl by the force of the wind. She felt the bite of a wing graze her calf, another bite into her shoulder as she kicked and slashed.

Dozens fell around her as her comrades destroyed them, and still they came.

She fired again, stabbed one before it could slice wing and talon over her face. Three coalesced, eyes bright and mad, lancing toward her as she struggled to reload.

Doyle’s sword sliced through them, cleaved and struck as he shoved through that crazed wind. With one hand he reached down, gripped her by the neck of her sweatshirt, and dragged her behind him.

“Stay down!”

She didn’t believe in staying down. Using his body as a windbreak, she pushed up, reloaded. She stood with him, back-to-back, half mad herself as she peppered the air with bullets.

Annika leaped through, bracelets flashing, then Sawyer, then Sasha.

“Bran?” Riley shouted.

“He said to get here, stay here,” Sasha shouted back, sent a bolt through one creature that continued through another. “And he’d—”

For an instant, the light blinded. It carried a flood of heat, a burn of power that scorched the air. What died didn’t have the chance to scream.

Overhead the sky bloomed blue again.

Shaken more than she liked, Riley bent over, braced her hands on her thighs as she caught her breath.

“You’re hurt.” Annika hugged arms around her.

“No. Just a couple of nicks.”

Though it did no good, she protested when Doyle yanked her sweatshirt off her shoulder, studied the wound. “A graze.”

“Like I said.” She jerked the shirt back in place.

“They swarmed you.” Sasha lowered her bow, looked back as Bran strode toward them. “I didn’t realize it until it was nearly too late.”

“Quantity over quality, that’s what I was thinking.” Sawyer swiped a splatter of blood from his cheek. “Enough to keep us busy, but on the weak side.”

“Yeah.” Riley nodded. “I thought the same. Then the wind picked me up, tossed me—like getting slapped by a tornado. A couple hundred of them banked toward me.” She snarled out a breath. “She knew I’d been hurt, figured I was the weak sister. Well, fuck that.”

“We were too far away to help.” Annika rubbed Riley’s arm. “If Doyle hadn’t been closer, if he hadn’t . . .”

Realizing she still held her gun in an iron grip, Riley made herself holster it, look at him. “Yeah. Thanks for the assist.”

“All in a day’s.”

His eyes said something different, she thought, something not so cool and dismissive. She kept hers locked with his as Bran checked her shoulder.

She heard him speak, didn’t register the words. He and the others might have stepped into another world. Hers raced, pumped with adrenaline and lust.

Doyle gripped her arm, said, “Now.”

She sheathed her knife. “Now.”

She moved with him toward the house. Apparently she didn’t move fast enough to suit him, as he plucked her off the ground. Since that was fine with her, she wrapped her legs around his waist, dragged his head down to hers.

“Oh.” Delighted, Annika hugged her arms. “They’re going to have very good sex.”

Sasha watched Doyle carry Riley up the terrace steps. “Shouldn’t we treat her wounds before . . .”

Bran simply took her hand. “She’ll be fine for now. Let’s get cleaned up, have a beer, and let them . . . tend each other for the moment.”

“Clean up. Good idea.” Sawyer grabbed Annika’s hand.

“Oh, we’re going to have sex, too.”

Laughing, Bran wrapped his arms around Sasha. “Sounds brilliant,” he said, and winked her straight up to bed.

Doyle ignored the bed. The minute he kicked the terrace door closed, he spun around, slapped Riley’s back to the wall.

“No frills, you said.”

“Not necessary.” She took his mouth again, added a testing bite as she fought to remove his sword and sheath.

She wanted flesh, the scent, the taste, the feel of it, and let the sheath fall with a thud so she could drag off his shirt and find it.

He’d already found her, his hands streaking under her sweatshirt to close around her breasts. Big, rough hands—exactly what she was after.

But more, more, she wanted penetration. Wanted invasion, hot and hard. The unspeakable thrill of life after near death.

He had grazes and nicks of his own. Together they smelled of war—of blood and sweat and battle.

Impatient, he didn’t pull her shirt off, but hooked his fingers where it was torn and ripped it—or most of it—away. The violence of the act, the rending, pumped through her blood, had her fighting with his belt as he dragged at hers.

Need growled in her throat, tied quivering knots in her belly.

He yanked her jeans over her hips, and then—thank God then—drove ferociously into her.

A pause, a beat, a breath. Absorbing the shock, the glory, and once again her eyes met his.

Held his while her breath tore through her lungs, while he plundered. She came in a torrent, release, blessed release, then fisted her hands in that thick hair, let him whip her up again while she pumped against him to take him in turn.