Fuck fuck fuck.
The pain was blindingly hot. I could barely breathe. I wanted to scream, but alerting someone would only make it harder to exact my revenge later. Gritting my teeth, I stumbled forward, hurrying to the nearest door. I found myself in a green room. I collapsed to the ground, closing my eyes.
Sometime later—I wasn’t entirely sure how much time had passed—there was a knock on the door. I was drenched in sweat and could barely breathe. Biting a scream back, I called out.
“Who is it?”
“Sebastian! Evie, are you okay? Arthur said you came in here.”
Forcing myself up, I grabbed the doorknob and turned it, collapsing into his arms.
“Help me.”
Chapter 56
Sebastian
The Third Act Fuckup
“Are you taking me to a hospital?” Evie’s face was pale as I brushed her damp hair away from her forehead. I’d managed to sneak her out the back and into the limo with minimal people seeing us.
Luan, my driver, tossed me a look. His eyes drifted to where I was holding Evie’s stomach. I shook my head and put a finger to my lips. I bit down, trying to figure out a plan, and then quickly made a decision.
“Take us home.”
Luan had been my driver for a year or so now, and he was paid handsomely not to ask questions. Nodding, he put the divider up, separating us from him, and shifted out of drive.
“No. I’m taking you back to my house. I’m going to clean you up. I told you to watch the cameras,” I groaned. When she got the award, she went behind the curtains, just out of sight of the audience and cameras. Alarm bells had been ringing, but it wasn’t until Arthur returned, flushed and with blown pupils, like he’d just done the best coke of his life, that I knew I had to go check on her. She’d only been gone ten minutes, if that, but in that time, he’d managed to stab her and leave her to bleed out.
I pressed harder on her wound, doing my best to stop the bleeding. Blood soaked through her dress and onto my fingers. I bit my lip. The warm liquid wetting my skin made the reality of the situation hit me. I had no idea how to treat a stab wound, but I’d seen enough movies to know this much blood loss was bad. Both my hands and hers were covered now.
Evie closed her eyes, and I reached for my phone with my empty hand, quickly searching how to sew up a stab wound.
This was going to get me on a watchlist.
It seemed simple enough—clean it, stop the bleeding, sew it up—as long as I had needle and thread, which I was pretty sure I didn’t. Laun dropped us at my house, and I lifted her out of the limo, carrying her like my dead bride up the steps.
I shoved the dark thoughts out of my mind. She wasn’t dead. She was breathing. She was going to be okay. I opened the door, and the dogs ran into the foyer from the other room, hitting the walls as they slid.
“Guys, not now! Go to your kennels!”
For once, they understood my tone and words and went to their rarely used crates. I ran up the stairs with her still in my arms and into my bedroom. Tenderly, I placed her on the bed and went to my bathroom, searching for alcohol, bandages, and the needle and thread I knew weren’t there. I returned with what I had and then got to work. Carefully, I rolled her over and unzipped her dress. Evie’s eyes fluttered open, and she screamed.
“Evie! It’s okay. It’s fine.”
I cringed as I tried to calm her, failing miserably. I dropped to my knees beside the bed, reaching for her hand. It wasn’t fine, but me losing it wouldn’t help the situation. Her entire body was shaking and sweating. The wound in her middle oozed through the dress and onto my sheets, the deep red staining them.
“I got fucking stabbed!” she sobbed. She squirmed as she clenched her jaw tight to hold in the screams.
“Was it Arthur?” I demanded. I needed to know just how desperate they were getting. Were they still using hired help for their dirty work? Or had they started doing it themselves? Either way, he was going to pay painfully.
“Yes, it was him,” she hissed, leaning up to help me peel the dress down her torso, revealing the full wound. I flinched. It was larger than I’d expected.
“Is it bad?” she asked.
I stared into the wet, mushy gash in her side. The knife had left a good-sized hole in her. Skin had peeled back, leaving muscle exposed and pulsing as she breathed. The wound was deep.
“No,” I lied. I had no idea if it was good or bad. “I mean, it’s not good.”
