All she could do was rock back and forth, crossing her arms in front of her. She pleaded with every spirit guide she’d ever learned about to save her mate. She begged God to spare his life. No matter how badly he was injured, she just wanted him alive. No matter what form she had him in, she would always love him, cherish him, care for him.
Nothing else was acceptable.
She listened to the shouts coming from every direction, unable to hone in on any single word. She folded her hands in front of her in supplication.
A shadow suddenly blocked her from the scene. She ignored it, her eyes squeezed shut. She knew from the volume around her that someone was being removed from the debris. She didn’t know which man it was or if he was alive.
She was afraid to find out. So she rocked, ignoring the shadow blocking her. She barely had her eyes open anyway. And she knew for a fact the shadow belonged to a human or a shifter, not a spirit.
Finally, the person crouched down and set a hand on her shoulder.
She blinked at the feet now inches from her own. Trace’s. His uniform pants were all she could see besides his shoes.
He squeezed her shoulder, making her flinch under his touch.
When she lifted her gaze, not wanting to meet his but unable to resist, she found his head bowed, his eyes closed, his body dejectedly slumped toward the ground.
The hand hanging between his legs was bleeding heavily from the knuckles. The one on her shoulder was soaking into her T-shirt. She didn’t need to look to know it matched the other.
He held her shoulder as if it were a lifeline, and she realized he was in the same position as her, praying, hoping, waiting for the word.
And then shouts.
Melinda jumped to her feet, dislodging Trace and stepping past him.
Men with smiles. Whooping.
Someone shouted, “He has a pulse.”
She raced around the disaster scene to the other side, only marginally aware of Trace at her heels. Please, God, she begged.
Paramedics hovered over the deep chasm in the rubble. Fireman lay on their bellies, arms stretched over the space created from the removal of debris.
Melinda couldn’t see anything, and before she could get close enough to peer down over the heads of the rescuers, someone grabbed her arm. “Baby, stop. Don’t get any closer.” Trace’s voice was gravelly, filled with emotion.
She didn’t care. She shook herself free of his clutch and turned to nail her gaze on him.
He flinched as he stared into her eyes. A tear rolled down his face.
Good. He should feel bad. He’d made a very poor choice.
She swallowed back any retort and inched forward. Please let it be Keegan.
A limp body was lifted from the debris, arms and legs dangling from the unconscious figure. There was no way to identify him from the several yards separating Melinda from the victim. The man was the right size, but then so were all the workers.
He was covered in a thick layer of gray powder.
And then she almost screamed. Long locks of hair hung behind the limp head. Blond hair. Stringy, glorious, blond, dirty hair that could only belong to her mate.
Trace gasped right after Melinda. He’d obviously realized this was Keegan at the same time.
Melinda fought to wiggle between the dozens of rescue workers to get to her mate as firemen laid him on a stretcher and paramedics worked frantically.
Keegan didn’t move.
Someone pushed an oxygen mask over his face. His arms and legs were gathered tight, and four men lifted the stretcher and ran toward the parking lot where three ambulances waited.
Melinda broke free of the crowd and ran as fast as she could to catch up.
The EMTs were setting Keegan’s stretcher on a gurney as she reached his side.
“Ma’am,” one of them said as she leaned over his unconscious frame and kissed his cheek.
“Keegan. Oh, God. Honey. Hang in there. Please. You have to.” She choked on that last part, tears streaming down her face uncontrollably. Amazing considering how many she’d already shed.
The chaos at her back continued, and she hated knowing another man was still buried in the rubble. But she had to be with Keegan now.
“Ma’am,” the paramedic repeated. “We need to get him to the hospital.”
Melinda lifted her face to find the EMT speaking to her, leaning into her line of sight. He was a shifter. That was good. Wasn’t it?
A hand landed on her back. Trace. He leaned over Keegan’s body and grabbed his hand. “Keegan. Hold on, man. Hold on.”
Melinda didn’t pull away this time. She soaked in the strength from Trace and then turned to watch as the EMTs lifted him into the back of the ambulance. They shouted out the name of the local hospital and slammed the door shut, leaving Melinda in a stupor. Numb. Stunned. Speechless.
Alone.
Trace was at her side, but she had never felt more alone.