What. The. Fuck.

Lore stood like a dope, knee-deep in snow in the middle of some godforsaken forest, cradling his would-be killer to his chest and wondering how everything had gone to hell so fast. He’d been a heartbeat away from completing his assignment, and now he was in the middle of nowhere, confused, and in pain.

Agony screamed through his chest with every breath. Damned ribs were broken, and he’d had enough of them to know. A raspy moan reminded him that the female in his arms was far worse off. Whatever Tayla had shot her with had done some serious damage.

He still wasn’t sure why he was holding her instead of killing her. The bitch was mouthy, she’d tried to kill him, and her heavy ass was hell on his ribs.

Though to be fair, she wasn't that heavy. Just…tall. And curvy. And athletically solid. Hell, she looked like she worked out with some serious weights.

As far as mouthy…damn, she had a nice one. Wide, with full lips made to make a male beg. Her features were perfect — finely wrought, delicate, feminine in a way that was utterly at odds with the power she wielded. And she smelled like she'd bathed in cinnamon sugar. Exotic. Sexy. Yummy. But what the hell was she, why was she after him, and why the fuck did he suddenly crave cookies in bed?

The need to get the answers to his questions had him putting out feelers for the nearest Harrowgate. His demon senses picked up on one nearby, which was good, because carrying her was going to hurt. As much as he hated to do it, he’d have to get her to Underworld General so his brothers could patch her up well enough for interrogation. If someone had put a hit out on him, he needed to know.

He weaved through the trees, leaving a trail of blood — both his and hers, in the snow as he limped toward the gate. Twice he had to stop to gather her waist-length ponytail so he didn’t step on it. At least it was tightly bound, the thick brown rope secured every six inches or so by an elaborately jeweled gold band. The effect, combined with her smooth, porcelain skin and honey-colored, almond eyes, made her one of the most striking females he’d ever seen.

But hey, if someone was going to try to kill him, he’d rather it be a hot, bloodthirsty chick than some ugly-ass dude. He hefted her higher to avoid impaling her on a tree branch, and yep, definitely better that his would-be killer was a feather-light female.

The Harrowgate loomed ahead, a vertical, shimmering curtain of light, visible only to demons. He limped inside and was immediately swallowed by almost complete darkness as the gate closed. Obsidian walls etched with crude maps that represented all of Earth and Sheoul surrounded him, the thin lines that made up the maps glowing with different colors.

In his arms, the female spasmed, the force of her seizure knocking him hard into the wall. Pain tore through his shoulder and his arm went limp, and motherfuck, his left shoulder had wrenched from the socket. Sucking air between his teeth, he gently lowered the female to the floor and used his good hand to tap out the map — North America, the United States, New York state, New York City — until he found the medical emblem that would take him to Underworld General Hospital, which existed beneath the streets of New York City, right under the humans’ noses.

Instantly, the gate opened into an emergency room illuminated by red bulbs caged in rows on the ceiling. A shimmer of unease went through him, which wasn’t a surprise, given that the last time he was here, he’d come to kill his brothers.

Talk about awkward.

Cookie was still lying motionless on the floor of the Harrowgate, and she was going to stay there unless Lore got his act together. He cradled his useless arm and eyed one of the pillars supporting the Harrowgate entrance. Shit. This was gonna hurt like a mother.