The Hunted

Eleven

Red

It was a miracle to see her eyes open, even if she'd only glared at him as if he were the devil.

"How is she?" Henry asked as Red stepped into the hallway.

"Confused. Scared. Angry. Anger was the most dominant emotion I could sense from her. It just...oozes from her pores."

Red nodded to Phillip and Deacon, guarding her cell today, as he and the Alpha headed for the stairs.

"The infection?"

"Gone completely." Red held the door open for Henry and they emerged into the building that sat atop the jail. In three strides, they crossed to the door and were through and outside into the forest. "I couldn't scent anything wrong within her, which was a relief after the last couple of days. Thank you, again, for bringing Ejo in. She would have died without him."

Hell, she'd almost died even with the interference from the warlock.

It had been the worst three days of his life. He'd been conversing with a few of his warriors over dinner, discussing new rotations for perimeter guarding when he'd felt the pain in his chest.

Red had never experienced anything as terrifying as it had been. The pain had been sharp, so intensely sharp that all other thoughts and emotions had emptied from his brain. He'd collapsed to his knees, sight going black. It felt like a sword cutting through his chest.

The worst of it had been the feeling of a growing crack in his soul, moving towards a total severing. He had felt that she was near-death. Had known inherently that if he didn't go to her, she would be gone.

Gone before he even...knew her.

Red had practically flown to the jail, moving faster than he'd ever run before. He must've looked half-mad as he'd thrown himself down the stairs and towards her cell. The two wolves on watch – Patrick and Chandra – had certainly stared at him as if he were insane.

Yet neither of them had questioned his orders when he'd shouted at them to contact Dwayne and tell him to prepare for a critical patient. Not as he'd slammed the door open and saw his Mate lying on the cold, hard cement floor.

Horrifyingly slow heartbeat. Eyes closed. So pale she looked death-white. Red lines running up her arm, emanating out from that injury. Blood poisoning.

The room had reeked of death. He'd known it was coming – had been able to scent how deep that infection went the day before when he'd visited her.

Red had just been hoping that she'd come to her senses, lose the hard exterior and allow them – him – to help before it came to this. The moment he'd first laid eyes on her in that cell, he'd wanted to whisk her away to the clinic but he'd known instinctively that if he'd done that, she would never trust him again.

As he'd stared at her, collapsed on that floor, Red had realized that if he didn't intercede, she would die.

He'd rather have her hate him than have her dead.

Red had moved on instinct, sprinting to her side and gathering up in his arms. It was only later after he'd run with her to the clinic where Dwayne was waiting and had placed her on a cot for the healer to begin doing his work, did he realize how perfectly she'd fit into his arms. How her head had tucked into the space between his neck and shoulder as if it were made for her.