"She left me."

"You should have let her go."

"She belonged to me—"

"She didn't belong to you! She didn't belong to anybody!"

Roaring, he lunged. Startled, I rushed backward, almost tripping on my own feet. He sparked the flight instinct—the two-legged, human version of it. I put up my arms to protect myself from the coming blow. Not very effective.

He grabbed my arm, swung me, and slammed me against the brick wall of the building. Stars burst in my head and my vision went dark for a second. Wolf sprang to life—run, claw, fight, rip, run—torn between fear and anger. I felt her in my bones.

"Kitty!" That was Ben. Don't shoot, I wanted to say, but couldn't. As soon as he turned from the henchmen to shoot Carl, they'd spring on him. He had to hold them back; he couldn't fight them all. Becky and Shaun didn't have guns, and I didn't think they could take them all on.

I couldn't speak, because Carl had his hands—thick, powerful hands—around my throat and had lifted. My feet kicked at air. Lungs fought for nonexistent breath. I gripped his wrist, dug in my nails, tried to pull his hand away, to flail at him, but he pinned me to the wall without effort. I couldn't even look at him. He forced my face up to a fading sky.

Just when I wanted to ask where the hell Hardin was, police sirens wailed. Tires squealed. Doors slammed. Impeccable timing.

No, not timing. Intent. She'd probably waited right around the corner, out of sight, until Carl did something that they could arrest him for. Get him for assault now, prove the warehouse murders later, after they already had him in custody. I thought I was using her for muscle, but she was using me for bait. Wonderful.

"Put your hands up! Move away from her! Let her go and step away!" Five or six voices screamed that at once.

Carl's hand tightened around my neck, and I felt the vibration of his growl.

Please, please…

I recognized Hardin's voice, "Mr. O'Farrell, put down your weapon! Let us handle this!"

Then handle it, goddammit!

The voices were still shouting at Carl to let me go. We could all get shot to pieces right here. I had to assume that Hardin had issued silver bullets to her people.

Then, my back slid against the wall and my feet touched ground. Air flooded my lungs, which rattled as I gasped. But he didn't let me go. I looked at his eyes, which were fire, bestial. His body was all sweat and musk. The fur, his wolf, were close. If he sprouted claws right now, he could rip out my throat. Slash the jugular and I'd bleed out before I hit the ground.

"Don't do it," I whispered. "You'll die here if you do it."

The cops were still shouting, "Step away now, now!"

And I thought he was going to do it, silver bullet in the back or no, I thought he was going to rip my throat out.

What happened next happened very quickly. Carl made one of those sudden moves—the ones you're not supposed to make around the police when they're pointing guns at you. I couldn't guess what he planned—if he wanted to get shot, if he thought he could move faster than bullets. Or if he simply took a chance in the hopes that it just might work.

He grabbed my wrist and yanked. I flew from the wall and into the open—between him and the cops.

A gun fired.

A punch nailed into my back. I stepped forward to keep my balance. Then, fire. Fierce pain through my chest dropped me. Like something had exploded inside me. My knees cracked on the sidewalk.

Carl ran around the corner and away, defended by his shield.

"Sawyer, hold fire, hold!" That was Hardin, sounding fierce.

The world stopped for a moment. I couldn't see anything outside of myself, I couldn't hear anything but my blood in my ears. I was breathing fast but wasn't getting any oxygen. Blood covered my hands—it was all over my chest, soaking my shirt, slick and red.

Shot, I'd been shot. My next breath squeaked. I ought to do something, I thought vaguely. I ought to scream or cry or something. I ought to fall down and die already.

But I stayed kneeling, staring at my own blood on my hands like it was part of a movie. Just art, or ketchup, or something. My breathing slowed, and with the fresh oxygen my vision cleared. And I realized the burst of pain had faded to an ache.

I pulled down my collar, wiped away blood, tried to find the hole—the bullet had gone all the way through between my heart and my collarbone; there was the wound, covered in caked blood. Already clotted. Already healing.

Someone's hands touched my face and forced me to look up. I flinched, startled, because I hadn't known anyone was there. Ben held my face and studied me with a wild gaze. His heart was racing. I could hear it.

"Kitty," he said roughly.

I slumped, gripping his arms to keep myself upright. Every muscle had turned to molasses. My laugh sounded more like a gasp. "It wasn't silver."

He slumped, too. We were in danger of melting into the ground. "Not silver."

I nodded quickly, and he pressed his face to mine. "Oh, my God," he sighed near my ear, then kissed my cheek. I clung to him.

Hardin barked a question. "Officer Sawyer—you're not packing silver?"

"Uh…no, ma'am. Didn't have time to file the requisition form." He sounded sheepish.

Thank God. Thank you thank you thank you…

"Next time, get those bullets. And don't fucking shoot the informant!"

This wasn't over. I felt a new pain—not from the wound, which had faded. Something else tore at my gut. Wolf. We'd been attacked. We'd been hurt. Now, it was up to her to protect us. She surged through my blood, took hold of my eyes, my senses. My whole body tensed as she seized me.

"Ben." My voice grated through my clenched jaw. I was Changing; it was coming so fast.

He knew what was happening. He pulled me to him, held me tight, and hissed in my ear. "Keep it together. Deep breaths, Kitty. Hold it in."

My skin was sliding, my bones melting, I thrashed at my clothes, had to get them off, had to get away—

"Hardin, get your people out of here!" Ben shouted. Finally giving in to what was happening, he ripped off my shirt and tugged at my bra.

Wrenching out of Ben's grip, I screamed.

Dizzy, angry. Can't see straight. Chest aches—injured. Not for long, already healing, but the pain lingers. So does the anger.