The corridor leading from the terrace to the lodge's interior was a long gallery of polished cedar. The only sound was the heavy, rhythmic thud of Malcolm Ford's boots and the ragged sound of his own breathing. In his arms, Luca was a dead weight of radiating heat and damp silk, wrapped tightly back in the charcoal wool coat like a captured prize.
Malcolm's mind was a battlefield. He could feel the soft press of Luca's cheek against his collarbone, the way the boy's wet hair was beginning to dampen his own skin. He was moving toward the infirmary with the focused intensity of a man fleeing a crime scene, his amber eyes fixed straight ahead.
Suddenly, a shadow fell across the hallway. Holino stepped out from a side lounge, a glass of amber liquid in his hand and a look of absolute, staggering shock on his face. He froze, his vibrant energy momentarily paralyzed by the sight before him.
