"Bring me home," I say, voice weakening. "Bring me to her."
"Pick him up, take him to the car," Shane yells.
My vision narrows to a single star in the sky as they lift me. Every step they take sends lightning through my side.
"Stay with me, boss," Shane says, his voice sounding miles away.
They load me into the back of the SUV. I feel the engine roar to life, tires squealing as we pull away from the massacre.
Blood soaks the leather seats beneath me. My consciousness fades in and out like a bad radio signal.
As darkness closes in, all I can think about is Lyra. Her face. Her touch. The way she looked at me before I left.
If I die tonight, at least I'll die with her.
The thought follows me as darkness swallows everything.
25
LYRA
The movie flickers across the screen, some old psychological thriller about a woman who thinks she's losing her mind. I watch with a lazy kind of amusement, curled up in Declan's massive California king bed, which feels too big without him.
I'm still in my robe, still waiting for him, though it's been longer than an hour.
I pull the duvet higher, trying not to think about how quickly I've adapted to this luxury. A week ago, I was sleeping on a shit mattress in an apartment with paper-thin walls. Now I'm watching movies on a television that's the size of me.
The woman on the screen is screaming now, and I laugh. Not at her, but at the absurdity of it. I've been her. More times than I care to count. Alone. Unraveling. Convinced the world is playing some cruel joke.
But not tonight. Tonight I'm warm and clean and safe. A car engine roars outside.
I perk up. That's got to be him.
My heart does that little jump, and I catch myself smiling. I'm starting to accept how eager I am for him to return, how my body responds to just the thought of him walking in.
I hear doors slamming, muffled voices. Something sounds off, too many footsteps, too rushed. The voices grow louder, urgent.
Then I hear a high-pitched woman's scream, and it's not from the TV.
I bolt upright as running footsteps pound up the stairs. I'm already on my feet when the bedroom door bursts open.
It's not Declan.
One of his men, I can't remember his name, stands in the doorway, his shirt soaked in blood. His face is ghost-white, panic etched into every line.
"Come quick. Declan's been hurt." His voice is firm.
"What?" The word leaves me as adrenaline floods my system, making my hands shake. "What happened?"
"Please, you have to help him."
I don't waste time asking more questions. I yank the belt on my robe tighter as I follow him. I fly down the hall, barefoot, barely processing anything.
"Is he okay? Where is he?" I ask, running behind the man down the sweeping staircase.
"We were ambushed," he says, not answering my questions.
I follow him past Nina, who's crying, sobbing actually. Her hands cover her mouth as she backs into the kitchen wall, horror carved across her face.
