“Shut the fuck up and follow me. Now.” Turning, he had her wrist again, dragging her behind him once more, uncaring of the fact that her knees were suddenly jelly.
What was Cullen doing here? Covert Law Enforcement didn’t have an op with the cartel. If they did, she would have known. Wouldn’t she have? It had just been three days since her resignation, not months or years.
And since when did Cullen do ops himself? He was usually in command or logistics only. As commander of the Agency, he oversaw the assignments; he didn’t take them himself.
In the four years she’d been with the Covert Law Enforcement Agency, she’d never known him to go undercover himself.
“Get in.” She was lifted and all but tossed into the passenger seat of another Runner before Cullen went over the hood of the desert vehicle and slid into the driver’s seat with an ease that amazed her.
As he jerked the vehicle into gear, the Runner raced for the back wall that surrounded the estate. No one tried to stop them. As they neared the gates the heavy metal barriers opened smoothly, giving Cullen just enough room as he shot past them.
She didn’t dare look at him. She could feel the fury rolling off him in waves, see it in the hard grip he had on the gear shift as he accelerated through the night.
The Runner was in lights-off, full covert mode, a model only the Bureau of Breed Affairs possessed. It was a little heavier than the one Chelsea had crashed into the estate with, but the motor was far more powerful and it was equipped with defensive features the others didn’t have. They’d have no problem if the Coyote soldiers happened to see them.
She was going to have a problem once Cullen stopped this Runner, though, and she knew it. She could feel it.
Decelerating the Runner, Cullen eased the desert vehicle along the back entrance of his property, then into the dark silence of the garage. Activating standby mode again, he let his hands grip the steering wheel, his hold so tight even the tips of his fingers ached.
“What the bloody, insane fuck were you doing out there?” The words ripped from his mouth, a
harsh, guttural growl filling them. “You were not scheduled out there. You weren’t even supposed to be out tonight.”
He snapped his mouth shut, his teeth clenched hard, jaw locked. The memory of that fucking gun the Blood Queen had in Chelsea’s face, her finger on the trigger, still had his blood boiling.
There wouldn’t have been a chance in hell for him to jerk that murderous bitch away from Chelsea before she pulled the trigger. As fast as he’d been moving, as desperate as he’d been, he wouldn’t have made it in time.
He knew, had known for years, that her work with the Breed Underground would get her killed. He’d argued with her cousin Linc over it, fought her grandfather over it, and none of it had mattered.
“It’s my choice if I decide to go out at any given time,” she reminded him, that cool, distant tone she sometimes got scraping over his nerves like nails on a chalkboard. “I need to call a ride . . .”
“I’m your fucking ride.” Vaulting from the low vehicle, he stomped around the back of the Runner, just making the opposite side as Chelsea jumped to the ground and stared around warily.
“I lost my glasses,” she said tonelessly, reaching up to touch her face. “I don’t remember when they came off.”
“Probably when that fucking bullet hit your arm,” he snapped. “You have a flesh wound at your shoulder. Come on and I’ll check it out.”
He gripped her opposite arm, pulling her after him to the kitchen door. The biometrics on the door had it unlocking at his touch, swinging wide easily.
“What were you doing there?” Her voice was low and thready as he pushed her into a kitchen chair before moving to the cabinet over the refrigerator and retrieving the medical kit he kept there.
“The Agency wasn’t involved with ops on the cartel.” She stared up at him, her dark eyes fathomless, her face pale.
“The op wasn’t listed on the books.” He slapped the kit to the table. “Take off your shirt. Let me see your arm.”
He didn’t wait for her to take it off herself. Gripping the hem of the snug shirt, he lifted it, teeth grinding, and eased it off her.
The exercise bra she wore covered her more than adequately but still had his mouth drying at the sight of the rounded tops of soft, tan-dark flesh, her breasts rising and falling with each breath she took.
She took the shirt from him and held it on her lap, remaining silent as he checked the slice across her arm before cleaning it. After smearing antibiotic salve over the shallow wound, Cullen bandaged it, then gave his head a clearing shake.
“Sit still. I’ll get you one of my shirts to wear. You’re probably hurting by now.”
He could sense the pain she was actually ignoring. The damned woman was so stubborn she should have been born a Breed.
Stepping into the connecting washroom, he pulled one of the short-sleeved shirts from a hanger and returned to her, helping her into it.
“I can button it,” she assured him, pushing his hands away and doing just that as she looked around. “Don’t you ever turn any lights on?”