“All right.” Then he swept me up into his arms, one arm under my knees, the other cradling my back. “Wait! What are you doing? Put me down!” “I’m getting you in the car without you injuring yourself further.” “I don’t like this,” I ground out, pressing my scratched palms to his white shirt, then jerked them back, realizing I’d likely stain it. Whatever he was wearing, it was expensive. “Please put me down.” “I will. Inside the car, Isadora. Isadora what, by the way?” “Savoie,” I muttered, gritting my teeth, my nerves fracturing on multiple levels. “Your ankle is injured, and you can’t walk.
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