CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
The forest blurs past me in a whirlwind of emerald and umber, my senses dulled by pain but hyper-aware of the strong arms that cradle me against a broad chest. The scent of moss and wild pine mingles with something distinctly animal, soothing yet foreign. He's a rogue, I remind myself, trying to keep the edges of wariness from fraying into panic.
"Almost there," the voice rumbles above me, low and oddly comforting. I risk tilting my head back, meeting eyes that gleam like liquid silver under the clouds’ gaze.
"Who are you?" My voice is a hoarse whisper, breathless from the jarring motion and the dull ache in my side where the gash weeps crimson life.
"Dean," he says simply, his gaze never leaving the path ahead as he leaps over fallen logs and dodges low branches with
