“Oh, Star,” he purred, running a long finger down the curve of my throat. He paused for a moment over a pulse point that I knew was rabbiting out of control and smiled. “The things I can do to you to make you truly mine. The things I will do. To you. To them.” His head rolled idly to indicate the women in the vans. “To others.”
Others? Happy, healthy women out there, living their lives, blissfully unaware of what monsters like Damien Cross had in store for their futures. My fingers curved around the handle of the knife.
When I was six, my father bought me a book on anatomy for my birthday. I poured over the pages morning, noon, and night, trying to prove to him how much I appreciated the gift. A black and white sketch of the human body flashed into my mind as I sank the blade to the hilt just below his ribcage, angling upward. Kidney, gallbladder, liver . . . I knew I hit something important.
Hot blood washed over my hand, making me gag on its sickly sweet stench. Damien stumbled backward, blinking at the handle still protruding from his gut. Once more, he’d underestimated me. The truth was, I was more like him than either one of us wanted to admit. His gaze—fraught with disbelief—lifted to me as he collapsed.
It was then that I saw him. Not the disguise that he wore or the beast underneath, but the little boy. The one trapped within the stone heart of the dragon. The one that looked unmistakably like the boy in the frame in his living room. The one that had been forced to watch his father struggle. His brother die. His family suffer. The little boy who had learned far too early a lesson that I was still being taught: Sometimes, no matter how good you are or how hard you try, the bad guys win.
But not today.
I sank to my knees beside him, watching the light fade from his wide, confused eyes as he tried to understand why not today? Why not him? Why me? As usual, I had no answers.
“I’m sorry.”
He gasped for breath and I slid my hand into his. Cold fingers clutched mine. He may have been a monster—one of the bad guys—but that didn’t mean he deserved to die alone.
“I’m sorry.” Tears for a man I loathed blurred my vision and clogged my throat. “I’m sorry.”
I lost track of how many times I repeated the useless phrase before his gaze turned vacant and his hand sagged in mine.
I’d taken a man’s life. A family’s son. Somewhere, someone would mourn his loss and I was responsible. The weight of my actions settled on my shoulders, crushing me. My thoughts splintered.
In the corner of my mind, I registered movement to my right. It was there, I just couldn’t grasp it.
“Zip it up, Cross. Time to move. You can bag the slut lat— Fuck!” Brian reached around his back, fumbling for his weapon. “You bitch. You’re gonna pay for . . .”
Whatever else he said was drowned out by a ferocious roar. All of my fragmented thoughts coalesced into a single undeniable, heart-searing fact . . . Elijah’s alive!
“Rylie!” Whole chunks of hair had escaped the leather tie at the nape of his neck and whipped around his face as he hurtled towards me. “No!”
Life seemed to move in slow motion. Snapshots of time as Elijah lunged at me. There was the flash of a weapon, the crack of a gunshot, the bone-jarring collision of bodies rolling across the hard concrete floor.
I blinked up at the ceiling, trying to get my bearings. A heavy weight rested on my chest. Elijah. He was lying over me, making it difficult to catch my breath. I nudged him, but he didn’t move.
“Elijah.” I pushed harder. “Elijah, you’re crushing me.”
No response.
“Elijah?”
My heart lurched and renewed fear flooded my system with adrenaline, giving me the strength to roll him off of me. He landed none-too-softly at my side.
“Elijah?”
The fronts of both our shirts were soaked with blood. Whose? Mine? His?
“Elijah!” I grabbed a hold of his shoulders and without care or thought to his injuries, I shook him. “Elijah!”
Slowly, so slowly, his eyes peeled open. A maelstrom of emotion—pain, fear, relief—swirled in them.
“Elijah?” His named seemed all I was capable of speaking.
“Ry—” Elijah’s eyes went wide and I twisted to find one royally pissed off Brian. His gun hovered two inches from my head. There would be no missing this time.
I fisted Elijah’s shirt and shut my eyes as a gunshot blasted through my eardrums, hoping to find a way to attach myself to him even in death. But death never came. Not for me. No pain. No blood. No bullet.
Boz tucked away his weapon and knelt to check for a pulse on Brian’s lifeless body.
I couldn’t wrap my head around it. “But . . . why would you—?”
“Rylie?” Elijah gasped. “You’re okay?”
“Yes.” I nodded as a fire lit behind my eyes.
A sense of peace eased some of the tightness in his face. “You’re okay.”
“Elijah, where are you hurt?” My hand, already tacky with blood, ran over his torso, seeking the source.
“You’re okay.” He swallowed hard and flinched when my exploring hand came across a hole in his left shoulder.
Anatomy facts blasted through my brain. No vital organs, but he was losing blood fast. Too fast. Too much blood. I knelt in a puddle of it.
“Hold on.” I pressed my only working hand to his wound, eliciting a pained groan I felt to my soul. “Just hold on. You’re going to be alright.”
Men in black uniforms with guns that looked like something right out of a video game swarmed the warehouse, surrounding us. The cavalry had arrived. But they were too damn late.
With what looked like the last dregs of his strength, Elijah lifted his right hand to cup my face. His silver eyes cleared of their pained haze as he focused on mine. “Everything . . . will be . . . alright . . . now. I . . . p-promise.”
Chapter Sixty
~Present~
“Is there anything else you need to know?”
I watch as a woman in pale blue gloves slips Damien’s hand beneath the sheet covering his body and begins wheeling him toward a van marked ‘Coroner’.
“I think . . .” Detective Tanner flicks his eyes to detective Fawn and back again, “that’s all we need for now.”
“Okay.” I scratch at the coarse material of the sling looped around my neck. “Am I under arrest?”
I’m not scared, merely curious. I did kill a man, after all.
“No, Rylie.” Tanner shakes his head. “You’re not under arrest.”
“Oh.” What happens now? I really don’t know. “Can I go to the hospital?”
“There’s a paramedic on scene if you’ve rethought accepting those pain meds. I can—”
“No.” Fawn misunderstands. I don’t need medication for the pain. I feel so numb the throbbing in my shoulder barely even registers. “I want to be with Elijah.”
“Oh.” She’s looking at me differently now. Almost embarrassed. As though she’s seeing me as a person—with a life, and hopes and dreams—for the first time. Tanner, too. I almost don’t recognize them without their better-than-you smirks. “Of course. We can give you a lift as soon as we finish up here.”
***
My thoughts hop, skip, and jump from one to the next with no real connection. There’s a moment when it occurs to me that I’m probably in shock, but it’s gone the next. I find myself sitting in a small waiting room with sketchy memories at best as to how I got here.
Scenery blurring by outside the car. Tanner standing at a desk, arguing with a nurse. The stark contrast of Fawn’s polished black boots against the bright white tiles in the elevator. A sign labeled ‘Operating Room’ in bold black lettering felt ominous.
Quiet settles over me like a thick blanket, comforting and somewhat suffocating. I’m alone. I don’t know where the detectives went or when they left or if they’ll be coming back. I don’t even know where I am. Where Elijah is.
My thoughts, like those leaves outside of Damien’s window, sl
owly settle into place and I realize I’m sitting here with no clue what’s going on. At the end of the hall stands a large L-shaped counter. I wander in that direction and wait for a man in green scrubs to acknowledge my presence.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Elijah Prince.”
His eyes narrow on me. “Are you family?”
When my grandma was in the hospital, they would only let family in to see her. I need to see Elijah, so I cast around for a response that will gain me access and the first thing my muddled brain comes up with is, “I’m his fiancée.”
“Fiancée?” His doubtful gaze drops to my ringless left hand, but I refuse to back down. I must look a mess because he takes pity on me without further comment. “Alright, then.”
Rooting through several files on the desk, he pulls out a clipboard and scans the pages attached. “Mr. Prince has come through surgery. They were able to remove the bullet. No permanent damage. It looks like he’ll make a full recovery.” The nurse has a kind smile. For some reason, it makes me want to cry. “He’s recovering in post-op now, but if you’ll go find a seat in the waiting area, I’ll come and get you myself when he’s moved to a private room.”
I thank him—or at least I mean to—and shuffle back down the hall.
Elijah’s okay. No permanent damage. Full recovery. It’s everything I hoped to hear and yet I can’t bring myself to believe it until I see him for myself.
Measuring time is almost impossible. Minutes? Hours? I’m not sure how much has passed, but the sun is coming up through the tinted windows when the nurse steps into the room and ushers me down a long door-lined corridor. He pauses outside the last door on the right and pushes it open.
I think he’s telling me something as I brush past, but my thoughts are too consumed by the sight in front of me to hear a word of it. Elijah. Sound asleep, lying in a narrow bed surrounded by railings and machinery.
A white plastic bag with a drawstring and the hospital logo printed on the front is dropped into my hands. I look to the nurse for an explanation and his brows go up. “His belongings?”
I suppose I should have already known that. “Thanks.”
He leaves without another word and I inch closer to the bed. The sun hasn’t reached this side of the building yet, so he’s cast almost entirely in shadows. It doesn’t diminish his beauty though. Dark locks frame his angular face. Sooty lashes fan across his high cheekbones. Toned muscles stretch the pale skin of his stomach.
It doesn’t diminish the sight of his injuries, either. Butterfly bandages hold a long gash on his temple together and thick white bandages are wrapped around his shoulder and across his chest. I assume he’s shirtless to allow easier access to them, but there’s a chill in the room. Closing the remaining space between us, I tug the thin white blankets up to his neck.
“Elijah?” My fingers trail up his chin and across his full lips, eventually finding their way into his hair. “I’m here. I’m right here. And you were right. Everything’s going to be alright now. Everything’s going to be alright.”
Chapter Sixty-one
My back aches, my head throbs, my shoulder is burning. For a hospital, they don’t go out of their way to make you feel very good. The chair I’ve been sitting in at Elijah’s bedside for several hours has to be the most uncomfortable thing in creation. I’m beginning to think it’s part of the design idea. Make the seats uncomfortable and guests won’t linger. Diabolically brilliant.
Standing, I stretch my sore muscles and make another circuit around the room. The bag of Elijah’s belongings is sitting on the window sill and I root through it simply to give myself something to do. Jeans, leather jacket, wallet, keys, cellphone. Cellphone.
I pull it out and power it up, wondering if there’s someone I should call. That’s what you do in situations like these, isn’t it? Call people? But who does Elijah have?
No family.
I’m already here.
Scrolling through the short list of contacts, I come to a name and hit send.
“Hey, man. Where the hell have you been?” is Declan’s greeting.
“Um . . . it’s Rylie.” I chew my lip, wondering if I’ve done the right thing calling him. He’s close to Elijah—probably the closest thing he has to family—and I’d want him to do the same for me if the situation were reversed.
“Oh. Hey. What’s up?”
I take a deep breath and dive in. “Elijah’s in the hospital. I’m here with him. He . . . got shot.” There’s really no easy way to say it, so I just spit it out and then rush to ease the shock. “But the nurse says he’s going to be fine. No lasting damage.”
Declan blows out a long breath and I give him a minute to recover.
“Okay.” His voice sounds thicker than before. “I assume there’s more to this story that you’re going to share at a later date. Does he need anything?”
“Well, he’s unconscious so . . .” I wrack my brain for anything that might make him more comfortable.
“What about clothes? For when he wakes up?”
When, he said when he wakes up, not if. The jeans in his bag are stained and his shirt is MIA, I assume unsalvageable with there being a bullet hole in it and all.
“Yeah. Yeah, he’ll need those.” When he wakes up.
“Okay. I’ll pack a few things.” A long pause and I wonder if he’s hung up, but I’m too exhausted to move the phone to check. “What about you?”
“What?”
“What do you need?”
“Me?” His words do not compute. I’m not the one lying in a hospital bed. What do I need? I need Elijah to wake up.
“Yeah, Ry. You need some fresh clothes? I don’t know . . . a brush? Other girlie shit?”
A brush? I run my fingers through my hair and they catch on some nasty snarls. “Oh . . . yeah.” Dried blood is still crusted to the knees of my pants and sleeves of my shirt. “Sure.”
“Alright. Give me a half hour. I’ll be right there.”
I nod at the phone, uncaring of the fact that he can’t see me and hang up.
***
“I’m the brother.”
Declan pushes his way into the room with bags dangling from his arm.
“Huh?” I stand, more startled by his sudden appearance than for any other reason.
“If the nurses ask, I’m Elijah’s brother.”
“Oh.” The ‘family only’ thing. Too bad the law doesn’t take into account that there are all different types of families. “I’m his fiancée.”
Declan pauses and looks my way. His gaze catches on the sling around my neck before moving on. A smile eliminates the hard edges in his face and he shakes his head on a quiet laugh. “Well, I’m sure Eli will be thrilled to hear that when he wakes up.”
I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic and decide not to ask. “What’s in the bags?”
“These are for him.” He hands me a plastic shopping bag and I root through clothes, a toothbrush and a razor before tucking it away under his bed.
“And these are for you.” He looks almost embarrassed as he passes me two more bags. “I wasn’t sure what you’d need, so I just grabbed a few things . . .”
Inside the first bag is what I can only assume is more of Elijah’s clothing. A navy blue sweatshirt, gray and white tees, sweatpants, and a pair of black track pants with an elastic waist. The second bag sports the name of a chain pharmacy. It holds a hair brush, another toothbrush still in the plastic packaging, a few hair ties, shampoo, and a mini makeup kit.
“I wasn’t sure how long you’d be here. If there’s anything else you need—”
“Thank you.” I look up at him and have to crush the urge to cry. If I cry one more time I think my eyes might bleed they’re so raw. “You didn’t . . . you didn’t have to do all of this.”
“Eh.” He shrugs and grabs a chair from near the window to slide up next to mine. “Five minutes in a store, no big deal. But I did get a few weird looks from the cashier. She m
ight think I’m a transvestite. Too bad, really, she was cute.”
For a moment, I don’t recognize the sound of my own laughter. Declan smiles to himself and somehow manages to make the hard chair he’s sitting in look comfortable.
***
The bag Declan packed for himself contained more than just the necessities . . . like a pack of playing cards. He’s in the middle of crushing me at five card draw—and I swear he’s cheating because playing one handed is harder than it sounds—when the door opens and Detective Fawn marches in.
My pair of twos hit the floor and I forget how to breathe. All I can think is: this is it. Enough time has passed for them to put the pieces together. The strangest part? I’m not even surprised. I confessed immediately, told the whole truth about everything I did, and they told me I wasn’t going to be arrested. But I guess part of me always knew that had to be a mistake.
One that she’s here to correct.
Chapter Sixty-two
“Who are you?” Declan gets to his feet and it’s hard to miss the way he positions himself between me and the detective. In Elijah’s absence, it seems I’ve acquired a new knight in shining armor.
“I’m Detec . . . I’m Madeline Fawn, one of the detectives working with Rylie.” The way she says it makes us sound like colleagues.
“What are you doing here?” His defensive tone makes me believe Declan’s having the same thoughts I am. I told him everything, too. In the hours spent sitting around doing nothing, I filled him in on the details that led us all here. His only response was full-bodied, bent over, can’t catch my breath laughter. I’m still trying to figure that one out.
“I came to . . .” Her gaze travels over Declan’s shoulder and collides with mine.
To slap cuffs on me. Haul me off. Lock me up and throw away the key.
“To apologize.”
What? I blink at her in stunned silence, still not convinced my ears aren’t playing tricks on me.
“Can we talk? Privately.”
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