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“Oh my God,” she breathes. “How . . . when?”
“He was wearing it,” I whisper, taking it to her neck. “I put it in your pocket when I got you onto the other boat.” My big fingers struggle with the delicate catch, fastening it. “There,” I say quietly. “Where it’s meant to be.”
She reaches up and feels at the stone, quiet. “I love you, Brad,” she says, as I nod and put my face in her neck, holding her from behind. “And whether you like it or not, you will always be my hero.”
I smile into her skin. “I’ll be whatever the fuck you want me to be, my love.”
She laughs. “Well, th?—”
“Fuck!” Danny roars.
I quickly pull out of Pearl’s neck as James comes running out of the cabin, and confused as fuck, I watch him take in the scene, pulling his gun. My heart starts pounding as my eyes slowly drag across the boatyard, seeing every one of our men aiming a gun at a guy who’s on his knees in the dirt, looking half fucking dead. Russian. He’s armed.
And pointing his gun my way.
“Fuck,” I breathe, as Danny and James start to fire at him, along with everyone else, sinking hundreds of bullets into his body as I turn Pearl away, using my body as a shield, my eyes clenched closed, my arms tight around her.
Bang, bang, bang!
My body jolts.
Fuck.
But . . . no pain.
The gunfire stops, silence falls.
And then Pearl suddenly feels heavy in my arms. I turn her, scanning her face, watching as her eyes widen, looking straight into mine. Ice glides through my veins. “No,” I whisper, seeing blood on her tank. She slumps forward into me on a rattly gasp. “No,” I say, catching her, holding her weight. “No, no, no, no, no, no!” I find her face, holding her head up. “Pearl?”
Her eyes slowly close.
“No!”
74
BRAD
* * *
I have no fingernails left. My son in one room, my love in another. One conscious. One not. One alive, one?—
I grit my teeth as I rake a hand through my hair, naturally scanning the room for something to hit. I don’t know if my swollen hand will sustain another punch of a wall. “When the fuck will they let me in?” I growl, sitting down, standing back up, then pacing some more.
“Brad, you’re making me dizzy,” Beau murmurs quietly, reluctantly. If any one of the boys passed such a comment, I’d launch them into outer space with my damaged fist. But Beau? No.
I stop at a wall and lean into it front forward, resting my head on the plaster. “I feel like I’m going insane.” She’s been in surgery for hours. I don’t have specifics on blood loss, but I saw the car seats when I climbed out with her. And I can see myself now. My jeans are bloodstained. Visions of Pearl’s bloody torso, her pale face, her blue lips, all plague my mind.
“The surgeon said he’d come to talk to you immediately,” Beau says, right before I feel her hand on my shoulder. “She’ll be okay.”
I close my eyes and wish for it. Be okay, be okay, be okay. “What if she’s not?” I saved her from her tormentor and couldn’t protect her for more than a half hour. Pathetic. This feeling inside, the overwhelming pain in my chest, it’s making breathing hard. I won’t be able to breathe at all if I lose her. My heart starts beating faster, my pulse throbs in my ears, and my breaths become short and fast. As if demonstrating what life will be like without her—a struggle to breathe.
I turn, stressed, panicky, and Beau sees it, reads all the signs. She pulls me to a chair and shoves me down, forcing my thighs apart and pushing my head down between them. She crouches in front of me, holding my hands as I concentrate on my breath. Not saying anything. Just being there. Patient. Waiting for me to realign myself. It takes a solid five minutes, and by the time I’m breathing less rapidly, my lungs hurt, and my drying clothes are damp again.
Beau turns my hand over, inspecting the damage. “This needs seeing to.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s double the size.” She sighs and rises, sitting on the seat next to me, checking the cut on the side of my head. “I’ll get a doctor.”
