Ristan muttered as his immense body held me against the ground. “Someone just tried to blow your head off,” he growled from deep in his chest. “No shit, Sherlock,” I mouthed, and felt pain throbbing in my shoulder. I kept it to myself, but had a feeling Ryder would be cussing up a storm soon. Sure enough, within a second, Ristan stiffened up. “Dammit, Synthia! You’re hit,” he snarled as he rolled off me, and looked at my shoulder. “I’m fine; it’s a flesh wound.” I turned and glared at him. “Tell that fucking Fairy to shut it. It hurts and burns like the fires of Hades, but I’ll live.” “Let me see,” he said and moved to sit up. “Stay down! Someone is still shooting at us,” I whispered vehemently. “Good point,” he said, and lifted his head over my chest to look across the twisted vines of blood red roses. “Stay put, Flower. I’m going hunting.” “You’re leaving me here?” I complained. “Well yes. You are shot, and I have a very angry Horde King in my head telling me to gut the mother fucker who did it.”
