can get Rogan out through. My arms and hands burn from my exertions, and the headache I thought I had dispelled comes back with a vengeance, but I push through, pulling at the smashed door with all my physical and magical might. Pops and the tearing and scraping of metal on metal fill the air all around me, and all at once the door wrenches open.
I fall back, losing my balance as it tears open, but a bruised ass is the least of my worries right now. I get to my hands and knees and quickly scramble into the car as much as I can to try and get Rogan free. Immediately I press my fingers against his neck, checking for a pulse to make sure he’s still with me. An unexpected sob almost chokes me when I feel the steady beat of his heart against the pads of my fingers. Tears start to drip steadily down my cheeks as I reach for the buckle to his seat belt, and I think it’s safe to say that the shock and numbness I’ve been feeling are starting to wear off.
That uncomfortable sense of urgency is breathing heavy down the back of my neck, and I snarl a frustrated growl when his buckle doesn’t release easily like mine did. I pull at the seat belt locking Rogan in place, but it holds tight, refusing to release him from its protective clutches. I call the polar bear jaw bone to me that I ordered, and try to saw at the seat belt with the teeth that are still intact and attached to the bone. It doesn’t work.
I need to move fast, I can feel it in my bones. I stop yanking at the seat belt and start searching Rogan. I pat his pockets and whimper in relief when I feel what I’m looking for. I have to shoulder him back a little so I can get my hand into the front pocket of his jeans.
“Stupid tight ass pants,” I grumble as I struggle to get a hand in. “Stupid big ass muscles and too tight pants,” I add as I work the bejeweled knife I’ve seen him use before up his thigh, with one hand, and shove my other deeper into the pocket.
“What are you doing?” Rogan murmurs groggily as I press in harder against him, trying to hurriedly coax the knife out of his pocket.
I gasp and flinch, startled and not at all prepared for him to suddenly be awake. “What does it look like I’m doing?” I huff, and I can just feel the cold metal of the closed knife against my outstretched fingertips.
Just a little more.
“It feels like you’re trying to get your hand down my pants,” Rogan observes, his statement a little slurred and worrisome.
I snort. “Yep, you caught me, I thought this would be the perfect moment to dazzle you with my hand job skills,” I snark. “Got it!” I announce excitedly, wrapping my fingers around the knife and pulling it free.
“What happened?” Rogan asks, his voice gravelly and his confusion feeding into the panic racing through me.
“We wrecked,” I tell him, my eyes meeting his. “I fixed what bones I could, but—”
“You’re bleeding,” he announces, reaching a hand out to my face and wiping at the steady slow trickle I’ve had since I woke up. His green eyes flash from perplexed to confused and then to angry.
“We both are,” I explain, and then I pull my face away from his hand and get back to work.
The blade of the knife pops out with a shick sound, and I waste no time positioning it against his lap belt. “Hold on,” I instruct as I prepare to saw away at the webbed polyester, but the knife is sharp as hell and cuts through the belt like butter. Rogan half tumbles on top of me before he seems to catch his weight against the frame of the destroyed car.
I crawl back and out of the tight space, pulling him along with me. I try to ignore the winces and grunts of discomfort as I go, but that same strange rumble moves through the ground I’m kneeling on, and it feels like it’s screaming you’re out of time at me. Just as the sensation passes, Rogan’s gaze snaps up and searches all around us. His face fills with anger, but that emotion is quickly replaced by pain. An agonized groan pours from his mouth when I try to help him get