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He’d just run out on his own men.
    The humans left didn’t waste time standing around being mad. They ran for the motorcycles, Dougal’s and Graham’s included.
    Graham spun and tried to intercept them, but one guy punched Graham in the side, right where the bullet was. Pain blossomed in Graham’s body, his Collar biting deeper agony into him. Graham grunted as he fell to his knees, and the guy managed to twist away and keep running.
    Dougal’s jeans lay forlorn on the ground near the bikes—easy for one of the men to lean down and scoop up Dougal’s keys. Graham leveraged himself to his feet, but the two men had reached Dougal’s bike, starting it up. As Graham staggered toward his own bike, the second man on Dougal’s motorcycle aimed his pistol at Graham’s Harley and shot it again and again.
    Graham had to watch his motorcycle, the Harley Softail he lovingly worked on every day of his life, become as wounded as he was. The gas tank punctured, fuel poured onto the ground, and more bullets lodged in the engine.
    The man driving Dougal’s bike moved it out, following the others, leaving them stranded.
    Graham folded his arms over his stomach, trying and failing to draw deep breaths. He was in excruciating pain, and their way out of the desert plus all the water was racing toward the highway, a thin spiral of dust rising in its wake.
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    M isty kept tugging at the handcuff that held her to the one beam in the shack that looked stable. She’d been pulling and yanking to no avail, her wrist raw. She’d feared to pull too hard in case the whole shed came down on top of her.
    She heard the vehicles roar away, and then the drawn-out howl of a wolf. “Graham!” she shouted.
    Another howl came, holding a mournful note, and one of fear. Shifter wolves were supposed to be strong and terrifying, but this one sounded lost and alone.
    â€œGraham!”
    â€œI’m right here, baby.”
    Graham yanked open the door to the shack. His eyes held deep pain, the skin around his Collar was black, and blood oozed from behind the hand he pressed to his side.
    Misty tugged at the cuff again. “Oh my God, you’ve been shot!”
    Graham’s voice was as strong as ever. “Stop screeching. You’re hurting my ears. And you—” He turned and yelled over his shoulder. “Quit with the howling. I’m not dying. Not yet.”
    â€œI’ll stop screeching when you call nine-one-one,” Misty told him.
    â€œAlready tried. No signal.”
    Graham kept his hand on his side as he moved stiffly into the shack. He latched his fingers around the cuff that bound Misty’s wrist, yanked once, and broke the handcuff.
    Misty lowered her arm in relief. “Can you ride? I might be able to drive your bike if you help me. I’ve never ridden a motorcycle before.”
    â€œNope. The assholes shot up my bike, and took Dougal’s, and their fearless leader took off in his pickup. They left us out here without water, transportation, or phones that work.”
    He sounded so calm. “And you’ve been shot.” Misty touched his arm, finding his skin hot and slick with sweat.
    â€œYep. But don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m used to it.”

CHAPTER THREE

    M isty started to shake. “Oh, right. Don’t worry. I was sitting here tied up, and you get shot, and you don’t want me to worry.” She swallowed, her throat dry. The thin-walled shack with its many cracks was like an oven. “You’re a shithead, Graham.”
    â€œThat’s what everyone tells me.”
    Misty couldn’t move her hand from his arm. She felt his strength beneath her grip, comforting her even now.
    Graham was a big man, loud-voiced and full of arrogance. Other Shifters were afraid of him, including his own wolves—his Lupine pack, he called them. Humans backed away from him, and even Shifter