Free Omen Operation by Taylor Brooke Page A

on the word and rolled her eyes.
    “You’re evolved.”
    “Evolved?”
    “Yes,” Porter said under his breath. “Now please, lay down so I can take those out.”
    “You don’t just get to say things like that and then not explain them.”
    “I will explain while I take those stitches out of your stomach.”
    Brooklyn lunged forward, nearly knocking him backward. Her hand clenched around his neck and squeezed.
    He braced himself with his arm outstretched behind him. Brooklyn fisted her free hand in his shirt. Her lips drew back into a snarl. She narrowed her eyes when she felt his arm loop around her waist. It astonished her how confident he could be.
    “Are you evolved , Porter? Are you like me?”
    The rasp that wrapped around her words when she said them made her throat start to close. She wanted to cry. She wanted to yell. She wanted her hand to squeeze. Just squeeze the life out of him until there was nothing left. Until the betrayal, the lies, and the truth all drifted away with his last breath. But she couldn’t do it. She knew she couldn’t do it, and so did he.
    Porter leaned into her, and she could feel the warmth of his torso against her own. Her grip loosened. He lifted his chin just enough to brush his nose against her jaw.
    “No,” he whispered. “I’m just a doctor.”
    A few strands of her hair fell from behind her ear. Even though she no longer had a tight grip around his throat, she let her hand stay there for a moment. His body was warm, and it felt good to be held. For his arm to soothe up her spine and cup the back of her head, for him to trace the bony ridge of each of Brooklyn’s knuckles as her fingers uncurled from around his neck.
    “You’re going to take the stitches out,” Brooklyn said softly, “and then you’re going to tell us everything.”
    The pitter-patter of his pulse sped up and knocked steadily against her index finger.
    “Everything,” he repeated.
    His eyes were forlorn and fogged behind his glasses.
    “I’ll tell you everything I know.”

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Ten
     
     
    It was tense when Dawson walked into the tent followed by Rayce and Julian.
    Brooklyn sat with her hand over her stomach where Porter had been poking only minutes before. Her palm was sealed over the wound, and she held her breath. Those words, the perfectly synchronized sentence, just couldn’t roll over her tongue and out of her mouth. It stayed put, repeating again and again behind her lips.
    “Gabriel and Amber are working on getting a fire going, but the logs are all pretty damp.” Rayce nudged his chin toward Brooklyn. “What’s this all about?”
    Say something
    Brooklyn swallowed dryly.
    Say everything
    Her throat closed when she opened her mouth and her lungs burnt.
    She was trying to breathe, desperate to speak, and completely one-hundred percent not ready for what was about to happen. She inhaled a tiny breath, glanced at Porter, and then lifted up her shirt.
    Smooth skin was revealed, obscured only by miniscule pin pricks from the stitches. The nasty bullet hole that they all had all seen only hours before had been replaced by brand new silky flesh.
    Dawson’s mouth went slack. His eyes narrowed when he leaned forward to get a better look.
    Julian shook his head. His hand rubbed over his mouth and chin. “That’s not possible,” he said.
    “Yes, it is,” Porter said gravely.
    The color drained from Julian’s face. Brooklyn squirmed at the sudden tightness in her chest.
    “How exactly is it possible for her to already be healed after being shot less than fourteen hours ago?” Julian asked.
    “Same way it was possible for her to be up and walking so quickly. She heals faster than the typical person would—” he looked from Julian to rest of them “—and so do all of you.”
    Brooklyn heard Dawson’s breath catch, and she heard the whispered protest from Julian when everything started to come together. Rayce loomed behind Dawson, his eyes stayed