She’d hidden things from him before, when she’d thought it was best—she’d hidden them with purpose.The difference was, this time he knew she was doing it.But he knew, too, that arguing about it wasn’t the best course. And maybe it was only fair. He was hiding things, too.Not that he could have articulated those things. Just that he was still reeling from the concussive effects of the grenades, when he didn’t expect to be. That he ached strangely, that his legs grew more rubbery and not less, and he’d broken out into a clammy sweat in the afternoon heat.“Ruger,” she said, tugging back gently as they reached the best of shelters, the angled root disk of a pine torn from the earth and resting cocked against another tree. Her expression gentled. “You’re hurt, Ruger. We need to take care of you. Right here.”Hurt? Hell, yes, he hurt. He looked down at himself, saw nothing but his own hairy chest and worse-for-wear jeans.“Your back,” she said. “We need to— No! Don’t—”He’d found it, running his hand over his back, his ribs—a shard of wood where it didn’t begin to belong, dammit, and how the hell had that happened, anyway?
