Callaghan stared at me in shock, his hand pressed against his chest, a red stain spreading across his white shirt. Then, as if in slow motion, he tumbled to the ground, unmoving.
Skidding to a stop beside him, I pulled him away from the fire, coughing as the smoke stung my lungs. Blood continued to seeped into his clothes, his heart racing beneath my touch.
Frantic, I ripped open his shirt, trying to find the injury. Stopping short, I stared at his chest, my throat constricting tightly.
“Monsieur O’Rourke?” The Templar that had been waiting for me on the beach stood before me, an apologetic expression on his face. “I must speak with you, urgently.”
“Tristan?” Samantha hesitated, seeing Cal’s unmoving body.
Staring at her, I swallowed hard, my voice breaking as I shared the horrible truth with her.
“Thomas Randall’s escaped,” I whispered.
Samantha covered her mouth in horror, turning away as Michael began to cry, reaching for his uncle with his tiny hands. “Is he . . .?” She asked carefully, the grief in her voice overpowering.
“He’s alive,” I breathed. “For now.”
She turned back around, nodding and swallowed. “We need to get him inside. Amy—” She handed the baby to one of the neighbors, thanking them for their help, and knelt beside my brother.
“Monsieur O’Rourke,” the young Templar asked again, timidly.
“What do ye want?” I hissed, angry he continued to bother me when I was so obviously needed elsewhere, not even offering assistance.
He took a step back, frightened by my sudden show of anger. “Master MacDonald sent me,” he stated quickly. “The Order needs your help.”
The Story Continues . . .
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