“I wouldn’t…” I began, but Marc cut me off with a look so fierce I lost my breath. His eyes had Shifted.

“I’m not done,” he growled; something in his throat had Shifted, too. “If I see him touch you again before you make your decision, I’ll break every motherfucking bone in his body. Or die trying. I swear I will.”

I believed him. And then we’d have two more toms out of commission, because I wasn’t the only one who’d grown up. Jace was no longer the low-ranking enforcer Marc had kicked the shit out of the summer before.

Before I could figure out how to respond, Jace thumped on the windshield, then got in the car with three bags full of stuff. He’d only been gone fifteen minutes, but had apparently bought out the entire store. Including the deli, based on the scent wafting from one of the sacks.

He tossed an exaggerated glance at the back of Marc’s head, then shot me a questioning look, silently asking me how it went. I could only shrug. We were all still breathing, and at the moment, that was all I could ask for.

Marc drove to the back of the building and parked behind the massive Dumpster, and we worked quickly, temporarily hidden from the rest of the world. Every tube of ointment and bottle of peroxide they shared came through me. I was afraid to let them have direct contact. Jace’s hair trigger was only slightly less sensitive than Marc’s, and every look he shot my way was intense. Searching.

He was afraid Marc had convinced me to get rid of him, and he was ready to fight that decision.

Jace scrubbed blood from beneath his fingernails while I cleaned the gash on Marc’s side. It probably needed stitches, but since we were in a hurry and my needlework left much to be desired, he settled for three Steri-Strips and antibiotic cream, all covered with a square of sterile gauze taped into place.

I helped him into a plain black tee, then tried not to squirm while he cleaned the cut on my cheek. It was straight and clean and shallow, and the wound had already scabbed over, so there was no need for stitches, though it would no doubt leave a thin scar. I left my cheek uncovered, because a bandage would only have drawn more attention to it.

When we were dressed, bandaged, and as clean as we could get without a shower, Marc pulled us out of the parking lot, and Jace passed out fried chicken strips, potato wedges, and bottles of water while I called to give my dad an update. We’d agreed to leave out our personal business, to keep from overloading our Alpha when he already had his hands more than full.

“Hello? Faythe?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” I said around my first bite of chicken. I was starving, and chewing on the right side of my mouth was the only concession I was willing to make toward the pain in my cheek. “We have Lance, and we’re about a hundred miles west of Malone’s property.”

The relief in my father’s sigh revealed the truth: he hadn’t expected good news. His footsteps echoed across the floor of the office. “Prospects?”

“Lookin’ good so far, but we’re not out of the woods yet.”

“How’s Lance?”

“Unconscious but breathing. I’m crossing my fingers against brain damage.” We’d need him healthy and coherent to testify before his execution.

“Blood loss?”

“Nope.” I swallowed my mouthful of chicken before elaborating. “Hiking boot to the side of the head. Plus tranquilizers. Malone really shouldn’t leave loaded syringes just lying around.”

“Mmm. Casualties?”

“None,” Marc said from the driver’s seat. And he looked decidedly unhappy with that particular detail.

Springs creaked as my father sank into the rolling chair behind his desk. “You snuck into the heart of Malone’s territory and made it out with one of his enforcers without a single casualty?”

“Not for lack of trying,” Marc mumbled, flicking on his left blinker.

I sipped from my water bottle. “We were lucky.”

“Don’t discount your own skill,” my father insisted, and I nearly fainted from shock. He didn’t hand out compliments lightly. “Injuries?”

“On their side? Five toms bound and gagged. One ruptured scrotum…”

My father nearly choked. “I assume that would be your handiwork?”

I shrugged, though he couldn’t see me. “He got grope-y. Anyway, one ruptured scrotum, two broken noses, several concussions, one slashed cheek, a knife to the lower chest—don’t worry, he’ll live—and one amputated thumb.”

Another moment of silence. Then, “Do I even want to know?”

“That one was me,” Marc growled. “He got grope-y.”

“Oh. What about the three of you? Everyone okay?”

I answered with another chicken strip halfway to my mouth. “Marc has a gash on his side, but nothing a few Steri-Strips won’t fix. Jace nearly got his skull bashed in. I’m watching him for swelling and signs of a concussion.”

“I’m fine, Greg,” Jace insisted, around an entire potato wedge.

“Faythe, what about you?”

I hesitated, and might not have answered at all, if I wasn’t sure either or both of the guys would do it for me in the event of my silence. “I got cut. On the face.”

“How bad is it?” my father asked without missing a beat.

That time, Marc spoke for me. “Colin Dean marked her from her cheekbone to the corner of her mouth.”

Silence. Horrible, heavy silence, while I waited for his reply. Then, “Are you okay?”