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“You’re not going to die,” I promise her, fiercely, my blood pounding between my ears. “I’m not going to let you die.”
I can feel her lifeblood pool around my knees and I grit my teeth. “Zayn, help me!”
Desperation is in my voice as I beg him to do something, anything.
Lorraine’s eyes are starting to lose their luster, but I see her clinging onto life, not ready to leave.
“I’m not leaving you, Lorraine. You hear me, sugar? I’m right here,” I tell her, forcing my voice to be calm, not knowing how I manage it.
The agony in her eyes, the bone-chilling fear.
I feel a pair of hands on mine. “Let go, Eve.”
“No.” The words are torn from me, “I can’t. Can’t you see she’s—”
“Let go,” Zayn sounds so normal, so in control, that when his hand reaches for mine, I let him guide me.
Zayn removes my hands, his face detached as he tosses away my shirt and then uses his own to tie it around the girl’s throat, who is gasping. Even as the white shirt soaks in the blood, Zayn keeps his hands pressed on it.
“Help’s nearly here,” he tells Lorraine. “But I want you to keep fighting. Okay? You’re not going to die tonight.”
Tears fall down the side of her face, and I reach out to clamp her limp hand between mine, my blood chilling at how cold it is.
I don’t look at Zayn, making sure that the young girl knows she isn’t alone.
The sirens of the ambulance jerk me out of my trance and the next few minutes are in slow motion.
Men pushing us aside.
Checking the wound.
Lorraine on the stretcher.
It is Zayn’s hands on me that wake me up from this very bad dream only for me to realize I am still here. That this actually happened.
“He didn’t hit the windpipe,” one of the emergency personnel is saying to the policeman, whom I just noticed is here.
I blink.
I am sitting in the back of another ambulance, a blanket on my shoulders, Zayn talking to the police.
A man is tending to me, offering me something to drink.
Dazed, I try to shrug off the blanket, and the movement catches Zayn’s eyes; he immediately cuts off the conversation and starts striding towards me, his eyes glinting. “Keep that on.”
“Lorraine,” I begin, my voice hoarse, reaching out with my hands, for what I have no idea.
Zayn grasps my hands, and I see the blood on them, his hands and mine.
“Lorraine’s going to live,” I hear Zayn speak, but my ears are thrumming.
A flash makes me jerk my head up and I see a round-shaped man standing at a distance from all of us, taking photographs Lorraine is being loaded into the ambulance. He angles his camera to take pictures of the blood on the ground and of us.
I freeze, not knowing what to do.
But it is the look on Zayn’s face that finally snaps me out of my shock.
The murderous fury erupting on his face.
