Page 57 of Ash Storm

“He would have bled to death already if it’d hit a vital organ,” Ash said, as if reading his mind.

“Have you been working together for a long time?”

“Not too long. But the fool grows on you,” Ash said good-naturedly. “Okay, that’s the best I can do. Help me lift him, please.”

“Lift him? Where?”

“Onto my shoulder.”

Reka stared at him, open-mouthed. “You’re going to carry him?”

“We’re not going to leave him here,” he replied.

In her weakened state, it wasn’t easy, lifting close to two hundred pounds of dead weight. Ash did most of the heavy lifting, but she helped balance the man onto his shoulders in what she assumed was a fireman carry—not that she’d ever actually met a fireman.

She couldn’t help but stare at his well-defined six-pack as his stomach muscles bunched. The man’s body was a work of art.

Stop ogling the poor man.

As he finished straightening, his jaw clenched tight.

“Is it your knee?” she asked. She remembered the way the other fighter had kicked him.

He seemed surprised. “It’ll hold.” He looked down at her feet. “I’m sorry, we don’t have any shoes that could fit. Are you sure you’re okay to walk?”

Reka felt the irrepressible urge to laugh.

If I’m not, will he try to carry me as well?