Page 7

I reach Anya as she finally turns toward the sound. My fingers catch the back of her blazer, and I wrap my other arm around her waist, pulling her against me so hard that she cries out.

There isn’t time to explain or even tell her to hold on. I twist toward the curb and throw us sideways, trying to keep her ahead of me, away from the car.

The impact catches my left hip before I get clear.

Pain shoots through my side, and my feet leave the ground. For an instant I can feel Anya’s blazer beneath my fingers, then the fabric slips from my grip and I hit the pavement.

My shoulder takes the first blow. My head follows, striking hard enough to send a burst of white across my vision.

Something cracks, close and ugly, but I can’t tell whether it came from beneath me or somewhere inside my body.

I lie still, unable to make sense of what just happened. A second ago, I was running. Now my cheek is against the warm pavement, and I can’t seem to draw enough air into my lungs.

Excellent. There goes my afternoon.

Someone is shouting nearby. Shoes pound toward me, and I try to lift my head, but the movement sends such a violent throb through my skull that I stop immediately.

Then the pain in my hip catches up with everything else.

It spreads down my thigh and through my side, deep enough to make my stomach turn. My shoulder aches beneath me, and when I try to shift my weight off it, a sharper pain leaves me gasping.

I manage a shallow breath, then another, keeping as still as I can.

Where is Anya?

I try to ask, but all that comes out is a groan. I can hear a child crying, and the sound frightens me more than the pain does.

“Elle!” Anya’s voice is close.

I open my eyes, blinking against the sunlight. The sky comes into focus above me, painfully bright and blue, before Kirill leans into view.

He drops to his knees beside me, breathing hard. His gaze moves quickly over my face and down my body, and his hand hovers near my shoulder as though he wants to help but isn’t sure where he can touch without hurting me.

“Don’t move,” Kirill says.

“That was already the plan,” I say.

His gaze searches my face.“Can you hear me?” Kirill asks.

“No,” I say. “This is telepathy.”

He stares at me.

Apparently, sarcasm is not included in Russian bodyguard training.

“Where is Anya?” I ask.

“I’m here,” Anya says. Her face appears beside his. She’s crying. There’s dirt on one knee of her tights, and part of her braid has come loose, but she is upright.

Breathing. Whole.

Thank God.

“Are you hurt?” I ask.

Anya shakes her head. “No,” she says.

“Anywhere?” I ask.