‘You were reckless,’ he growled, his tone laced with frustration. ‘But freakin’ badass, too.’
‘Fokkoff, husband, I saved your life.’
Mak glared at her, then bent and captured her lips, so taken, so enthralled with all of her, relieved she was fine, uninjured by her ordeal.
When they came up for air, panting, Zolan had his arms around Shiloh, whispering into her ear, his hands running down her back in reassurance.
Kaal was speaking with Zolan’s crew, who’d now crowded into the room, handling their agitation with cold efficiency.
‘Enough,’ Mak’s cousin snarled at them. ‘Ladik is gone, a traitor to this syndicate, this clan. I hope none of you sided with him.’
They exchanged petulant glares and fell into a reticent silence.
‘Leave us,’ Zolan muttered, weary as fokk. ‘Talk among yourselves, and I want confessions from any of you who went along with this Solanite shit. Comply now and receive justice, or hide, and I will slice your necks myself.’
His threat was sufficient to put fear in some of his men’s faces.
‘Shan,’ Zolan growled to his brother, ‘You’re in charge. Get the hell out, lead the rest of the crew, and find out if we’ve any more traitors.’
Mak’s stone-faced younger cousin gave his sibling a nod and shepherded the remaining Sidanis, who exited the room, but not before shooting angry daggers at them.
Zolan’s drained gaze followed them.
He and Shiloh stood close, but Mak sensed the tension still simmering between the couple.
‘I need a first aid kit, please,’ Saba called out.
Zolan broke away from his woman, rummaged in a cupboard in the hallway, and returned, handing her a box as Mak shrugged off his shirt with a wince.
SABA
‘Pain level, one to ten?’ Kaal asked Mak as he knelt next to him.
‘Six,’ Mak murmured, but it was clear as day he was in a lot more agony than he was letting on.
‘No time to be a hero,’ Kaal growled.
Kaal and Saba found gloves in the kit and slid them on to examine the wound.
Kaal turned to Saba. ‘I’ve got plenty of field medicine experience. Just follow my lead.’
Saba nodded, trusting Kaal’s cold efficiency and calmness.
Kaal and Saba hustled fast.
Saba injected Mak with a strong painkiller.
Kaal cleaned the injury using vodka from Zolan’s bar to wash it out.
‘It’s a through and through,’ Kaal murmured after a beat. ‘He’ll live.’
‘Fokkoff,’ Mak groused at him.
Kaal’s gloved hand moved with swift care and focus as he worked, his movements precise and deliberate, crisscrossing white bandages over the deep gash on Mak’s shoulder.
‘Not going to be a fun recovery process,’ Mak muttered through gritted teeth, squirming as a nerve point set off.
Kaal glanced up at Mak. ‘You’re a warrior, brother. But you’re going to have to be still for a bit.’
