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I feel it in every part of me, all the way down to the tips of my toes.
He fires two more times, and I kiss him harder as our bodies vibrate from the kickback. I kiss him like I’m trying to crawl inside him, and he kisses me like he’s trying to eat me alive.
The echoes of the shots fade, and the room falls silent except for our heavy breaths. Jordan never even got a chance to speak again. I’m pretty sure the first bullet ended his life—the next two were just for Marcus.
For me.
I press myself harder against him, clinging to him with an arm around his back, as the familiar scent of blood seeps into my nostrils. It mingles with Marcus’s clean leather scent, filling my heart and mind with a cacophony of remembered images and sensations.
Three shots.
It’s always been three shots.
That’s why Marcus shot him three times.
His lips are hot on mine, and it’s only when I taste salt that I realize I’m crying. They’re not sad or happy tears, they’re just… release.
I keep kissing him, ignoring the fact that I’m smearing tears all over his face, and even when our deep kiss finally ends, I press small pecks to his lips in between words.
“You didn’t have to do that. Marcus, you didn’t have to—”
He catches my chin in his grip, tilting my head up as he pulls away to look down at me. “Yes, I did, angel. Of course I did.
I wanted to.”
Slowly, we both turn to take in the body of the man in the chair. He’s slumped backward, his head lolling to one side. A small trail of blood trickles from a bullet hole in his forehead, and there are two more holes in his chest. His light brown eyes stare blankly up at the ceiling, and his mouth hangs open slightly.
“He doesn’t deserve your pity, Ayla.” Ryland’s voice is a deep rumble.
I nod. “I know.”
My gaze stays glued to the man before us for another long moment. The sight is gruesome—horrifying, really—but I force myself to keep looking until I’ve had my fill. I know I’ll never see this man again. This will be my last memory of him.
Honestly, out of all the memories I have of Jordan McCabe, this is the one I’ll hold on to the longest.
None of the men say anything else until I turn away from the man’s corpse. Then Marcus tugs me a little closer with the arm he’s slung around my waist, looking over my shoulder at the other two. He doesn’t even ask the question before Theo answers.
“We’ll take care of the body. Get her home.”
I feel Theo’s lips brush my hair, and Ryland turns my face to press a kiss to the corner of my mouth. Then the two of them move toward Jordan’s body as Marcus ushers me upstairs.
We take one of Theo’s cars, and Marcus presses a few buttons on the steering wheel, flipping through a few songs before he settles on one he likes. Soft music fills the car as we drive through the deserted, darkened streets, heading back toward Halston proper.
It’s quiet, just like it was on my drive out with Theo, but I don’t mind that. It feels nice. Comfortable.
I know I should probably feel guilt or disgust or horror over what I just witnessed, but when I examine my feelings, all I can find inside myself is peace.
Whether I knew it or not, whether I admitted it to myself or not, Jordan McCabe has haunted me since I was fifteen. A part of him stayed with me long after I left his house, tormenting me even as the man himself moved on, all but forgetting about the girl whose life he had irrevocably altered.
Maybe I shouldn’t be glad he’s gone, but I am.
It’s late by the time we arrive back at Theo’s house and Marcus pulls smoothly into the garage. I can feel exhaustion somewhere in my body, and I know Marcus needs sleep, but instead of pulling me toward the bedroom when we get inside, he stops in the kitchen.
His mesmerizing eyes are hard to read as he draws me over to the sink and grabs a few paper towels, running them under the water to wet them. It’s only when he begins to clean off my arm that I realize I’ve got small spatters of blood on me. He’s got little spots of blood on his skin as well.
They’re not large droplets, just small specs that dot my arm and shoulder, but they turn the paper towel pink as he scrubs it over my skin.
There’s blood on my shirt too, and I lift my arms willingly as Marcus tugs it off over my head. He lets it fall to the floor before rubbing the paper towel over my neck and shoulder. He drops it into the sink when he’s finished, but his gaze keeps roaming over me, his fingertips tracing the same paths the paper towel just traveled.
