He crouches down and steadies me, his gaze finally meeting mine, his eyes softening.
“Rowan,” I whisper. “What did you do? You should have called the police—“
He tucks his gun away and interrupts me by cupping my cheeks with both of his hands. “Are you okay?”
My lips wobble. “I don’t know.”
Guilt crisscrosses his expression. He pulls me into him and presses his lips against mine again and again. His kisses are gentle but underscored with desperation. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t understand what’s happening.”
His jaw tightens. He’s not saying what he’s thinking, and that terrifies me.
“I want to get out of here.”
He tucks me against him, his palm cradling the back of my head. “We will. Stay here. I just need to take care of something first.”
I nod against his chest, numb. “Okay.”
He pulls away from me. “Don’t look out the window.”
Confusion strums through me. “What?”
“Promise me you won’t look out the window.”
I swallow. “Okay.”
He gives me one final long look and leaves.
Some seconds pass. At first, I have no intention of getting off the ground. I’m not even sure I have the strength to do so. But when I hear the sound of fighting, adrenaline drips into my bloodstream, and I hobble up to my feet.
Don’t look out the window.
The curtains are blackout, but the sound insulation sucks. Shouts reach my ears. The sound of a scuffle.
What if Rowan needs help?
I don’t have a phone, but Uncle Lyle does. When I look back at his body, the pool of blood has grown, and I have to glance away. If Rowan hasn’t called the police, I should do it, but instead, I find myself moving closer to the window.
Don’t look out the window.
There's a gunshot. A scream.
My fingers curl over the edge of the curtain. I peel it back a few inches, just enough to see the parking lot outside.
Rowan is fighting two of my godfather’s men. Another two lie on the ground, passed out.
Or…dead?
It’s too dark to see them clearly. The parking lot is illuminated by a single lamppost. I can see Rowan though. I watch as he holds his own, each punch and kick landing with precision. His body moves fluidly, a blur of dark ink and shadow.
One of the men lands a punch, and a gasp spills past my lips.
Don’t look out the window.
But I keep looking. I watch as Rowan keeps fighting. I can’t tear my eyes away. It’s horrible and beautiful at the same time.
When did he learn how to fight like that?
