Winter was still breathing heavily as he reached out, his fingers brushing against Zara's arm. His heart slammed against his ribs, adrenaline still coursing through his veins like fire.
He forced himself to think logically, to push past the terror still tightening his throat. His eyes swept over her quickly, scanning for injuries, then flickered to Leo—small, trembling, clutching onto Zara like she was the only solid thing in a collapsing world.
Zara stood stiffly, her knife still raised, her knuckles white from the death grip she had on the handle.
Winter reached out again, steadying her before she could topple over. "Are you hurt?" His voice was quiet, strained with concern.
Zara shook her head but didn't meet his eyes. Her entire attention was on the bundle pressed against her chest.
Leo's small body shuddered against her. His little fingers had twisted into her jacket, locking in a white-knuckle grip. His breathing was shallow, even through the mask.
