The clerk froze but quickly reacted and grabbed the phone.
I ran back out. I couldn't leave Lucas. I couldn't. But when I got back to the alley, those men had fled. Only Lucas remained, lying on the ground.
He was covered in blood, motionless, filthy with mud, face bruised and swollen. His shirt was torn, exposing bruises and scratches on his chest. Blood flowed from the wound on his arm, forming a small pool on the ground.
The light was too dim. The alley only had that flickering streetlamp, its yellow glow not reaching where he lay. I couldn't tell if his chest was rising.
Was Lucas dead?
No!!
My legs gave out, and I collapsed. Crying, I crawled toward him. My knees hit broken glass, shards embedding in my skin, blood flowing. But that pain was nothing compared to the pain in my heart.
"Lucas," I crawled to him, knelt down, and cupped his face in my hands. His skin was cold. "Don't die, please, I'm begging you..."
"Ella," he weakly opened his eyes and even smiled at me. "If I die, can you not divorce me?"
That smile was weak, but real. He was alive!
Relief flooded through me, making me cry harder.
"Lucas, you asshole!"
Lucas laughed too. But as he laughed, more blood poured from the corner of his mouth. I immediately realized he was badly hurt.
"You're bleeding," my hands shook. I wanted to help but had no idea where to start. His shirt was so dirty, covered in blood and filth and alcohol—I couldn't even tell where the wounds were. "Don't move, you'll be okay, do you have a phone, quick, give me—"
"Just surface wounds," he gasped, face pale as paper, lips tinged with the gray-purple of blood loss.
He raised his hand and gently wiped tears from my cheek. His fingers were cold, stained with blood, leaving dark red marks on my face.
Sirens wailed, getting closer.
I pressed on the wound on his arm. Warm, sticky blood covered my hand, but I didn't dare let go. I pressed while crying, tears streaming down, dripping on his face.
"Ella," he suddenly spoke, voice faint. "Can you forgive me now?"
I froze. "What?"
"Forgive me," he repeated. "For everything I did."
"What—" I cried harder. "Really, now?"
"But," he swallowed with difficulty, tears glistening in his eyes, "I just need to know."
I looked at him. This man who'd nearly died saving me, this man covered in blood, lying in a filthy alley, was still worried about whether I'd forgive him.
In that instant, I realized Lucas might actually love me.
That thought split my brain open. I could divorce him, I could hate him, I could refuse him, but I couldn't accept him dying.
"I forgive you," I heard myself say, voice shaking. "Dammit, Lucas, hang on, you'll be okay!"
The alley entrance suddenly lit up with alternating red and blue police lights, followed by a rush of urgent footsteps.
"Over here!" I screamed. "Someone help!"
Police ran over. Someone asked questions, someone checked Lucas's wounds, and someone draped a blanket over me. But I couldn't hear anything. I could only stare at Lucas, at his pale face and the blood at the corner of his mouth.
