Page 52 of The SEAL's Duchess
“Ivy.” His voice broke on her name. He pressed closer, breath fogging the glass. “Ivy, can you hear me?”
Nothing. Just the wind. The stampede of blood in his head fighting with the storm.
“Ivy.”
Her lashes fluttered. A low sound slipped out—weak, pained, but alive. Her eyes opened, hazy and unfocused.
“Ryder?” The word was a rasp and so damn fragile he nearly dropped the flashlight.
Relief buckled his knees. He braced against the frame, forcing control into his voice. “Jesus. Ivy. You’re alive. Are you hurt? Can you move?”
She tried to shift, gasped, face contorting. “My seatbelt. It’s jammed. I can’t?—”
“Hey, hey. Look at me.” His voice stayed calm, even as panic savaged his chest. “I’m getting you out. You’re going to be fine.”
The passenger window was already cracked. Two sharp strikes with the butt of his flashlight and the rest collapsed inward in a controlled shower of pebbled fragments. He swept the shards clear, then slid through headfirst.
Inside, the air stank of fuel. The car groaned as he shifted, but he moved carefully, distributing his weight so nothing jarred the frame.
Protocol said wait for fire rescue with stabilization gear. But protocol didn’t account for fumes this heavy.
“Ryder, I can’t?—”
“I’ve got you.”
The seatbelt was locked, the mechanism warped. He dug into the emergency kit he’d hauled from the truck, fingers closing around his compact rescue tool—glass breaker on one end, razor-edged cutter on the other. Lifesaving gear.
“Hold still.”
One slice and the belt gave. Ivy sagged forward with a broken gasp. He caught her against his chest, easing her back gently as his hands skimmed over her—skull, ribs, abdomen, limbs. “Easy. Let me look at you.”
Her skin was ice cold, her body trembling with a deep shiver that scared him more than blood ever could.
No deformities. No catastrophic bleeds. A cut at her hairline, glass abrasions on her hands. “Can you feel your fingers? Toes?”
Her tear-streaked face lifted toward him. “I think so. Everything hurts, but I can move.”
“That’s good. That’s real good.” His relief didn’t show in his voice. He shifted, angling her toward the broken window, his body shielding her from jagged edges. “We’re getting out now.”
The extraction took longer than he liked, but he wasn’t taking any unnecessary risks. When they cleared the wreck, he lifted her into his arms. Her head dropped against his shoulder, and his grip locked tighter, fierce protective instinct smashing through his muscle and bone.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured into her hair. “You’re safe now.”
She whimpered—so softly he nearly missed it—and burrowed instinctively toward his warmth.
The truck’s cab was still warm, heater still blasting. He settled her carefully in the passenger seat, then climbed in beside her. In the dome light’s glow, he could assess the full extent of the damage—the cuts on her face and hands, the bruising already darkening along her collarbone, the way she held herself as if everything hurt.
Sirens wailed faintly through the night, closing in.
Ivy turned her face toward him, wide-eyed, her voice husky. “You came after me.”
He cupped her cheek, thumb brushing away a tear. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”
Her eyes closed, and she leaned into his touch, her hand closing over his. “I hoped.”
Red and blue lights strobed through the trees—the cavalry arriving. Soon there would be paramedics, reports, questions.
But right now it was just the two of them in the cocoon of his truck.
