Logan’s team had rushed us from the building so quickly, so expertly, that I hadn’t even had time to process it. They’d found Aern—reached him via cellphone where he’d been fighting with a small band of Morgan’s men—and he and Emily were unharmed, heading for the Council buildings to meet us. Logan had me wrapped in a blanket, pulled tight against him as we rode in the back of a large SUV. Neither of us cared that two of his men were in the seats ahead of us. He squeezed my fingers in his, stroking the back of my hand with a thumb, his other arm around me. My palm was filthy, covered in dirt and rust-colored blood, but I wasn’t about to take it out of his hand. Raw, red lines marked my wrists, skin torn in bloody bands through the tattoos that marked me chosen. Unable to look at it, my gaze trailed over Logan’s strong hands, smudged and dirty in their own right. And then I realized it was his own blood. “Logan,” I breathed, sitting up to face him, “you’re hurt.”
