Page 101 of Break Out the Girl

Wump-ppp.

I love you, Sky.

38: TALIESIN

A ragged gasp cuts through the roaring storm.

Sky’s chest suddenly heaves underneath my palms, her spine arching off the mud as her lungs swell with life-saving oxygen. She sucks in another massive breath, and a mist of swirling, luminescent vapor disappears straight down her throat.

Rory.

Sky’s eyelids flutter open to reveal bloodshot, terrified eyes.

“We’ve got you, Sky,” I choke out, hauling her wet, shivering body into mine. “You’re safe.”

London lets out a strange joyful noise. “She’s breathing! Burt, she’s breathing!”

Wump-ppp.

Ppp.

Wump.

My head snaps around. A few feet away, right beside the dead carcass of the Harpy, Aurora is collapsed in the mud. Her human body is limp, pale, and completely unresponsive. I thrust Sky at London and scramble towards her.

François is already there, his face a blood-streaked mask of panic. He hovers his hands over her chest. “I don’t know what to do.”

My fingers go to her neck. There’s a pulse, but it’s ragged and weak.

She’s breathing—just, but I’d bet anything she’s poured every last drop of her own essence into Sky.

“No. No, you don’t, Princess,” I snarl, sliding my hands under her shoulders, pulling her against my chest, while my wolf thrashes beneath my ribs. For a second, I feel completely at a loss.

Sky is shivering violently in London’s arms, barely conscious herself. Jim is clutching his bruised ribs, his shock collar still blinking its threat.

And Rory is dying in my arms.

Get it together, Bevan.

“We have to move!” I yell. “Now!”

I stand, Aurora in my arms, and begin to move. François has Jim slung over his shoulder, and London runs while cradling Sky.

We run.

Run.

I can hear gunshots and shouts as the hunt continues, but thank fuck, we don’t come across anyone.

Crashing through the final thicket we burst out at the perimeter wall. The twelve-foot wall is topped with high-voltage vicious razor wire.

Behind us, the estate's backup alarms are starting to wail.

François drops Jim and hits the wall first. He slams his palms flat against the base of the bricks as he pours wave after wave of his basilisk fuckery into the barrier. The bricks begin to crackle, and under the green glow of his touch, they seem to rapidly age, shifting into brittle clay.

Just like at Quo, London slams his body into the wall, breaking down a section big enough for us to crawl through.

Before the dust can even settle, shielding Rory, I throw myself through. “Hurry,” I scream, looking back.