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"FUCK THIS SHIT. SHOOT HER! You're faster than this crazy bitch!" Rhys rears his head back to slam it into George's face. Rhys is trained, but George has years on him, and he turns his head at the last second. All I can do is watch, tears streaming down my face.
Please don't hurt him or let him get hurt.
"That's enough!" George roars in Rhys's ear and somehow gets through. Rhys stops his struggle—or that's what he makes everyone believe. As soon as George relaxes his arms, Rhys lets himself drop and goes for the abandoned Glock.
"Noooooo!" The scream bursts out of me, and I try to buck Emily off my body, but she is already gone.
Both men follow Rhys’s abrupt movement, not realizing that Emily anticipated the action and dived for it a fraction of a second faster. My mother and Rhys both grasp for the gun at the same time.
I can't see who reaches it first. They're in a tangle of arms and legs when a gunshot makes everyone freeze. George and Tristen are staring with wide eyes at the two slumped forms on the ground, and I register something splash across my face.
Oh, please, no!
Time is frozen. I can't breathe. Someone do something! I want to crawl over, but as soon as I shift, the pain in my leg immobilizes me. I need to get to him. No, no, no. I wipe my eyes. But the tears are falling faster than my weak hands can remove them. Then, everything springs back into action, and both men dive toward Rhys, who is buried underneath Emily. Pulling my fingers back, I see the crimson color on them. My face is not only wet with tears.
"RHYS!" Tristen roars.
The world fades away, my eyes glued to my fingers. Red. Blood. I can't lose him. The thought repeats itself over and over in my head. I can't lose him. I don't pay attention to anything that's happening around me. I can't lose him.
A shadow appears above me, and my focus changes.
Gray.
My surroundings turn silent. Everything besides Francis Garrison (Gray) Turner is on pause. He peers down at me, his eyes briefly flicking to the side before returning to me. He squats down, and for the first time, I let my head turn toward the center of the room. I still can't make out what's going on. My eyes are burning. Tristen kneels on the floor, his back blocking most of my view. All I see are Rhys's legs and part of my mother sprawled on the ground. My face is grabbed by the chin, a rough hand forcing me to look back up at the man who broke into my house and kidnapped me. Something in his expression changes, but I don't understand what.
He leans down further until he is close to my ear. "No one betrays me. Our paths will cross again, but until they do...take care of her."
He shoves something into the pocket of my pants before he stands back up and disappears.
Her?
It’s as if someone has pushed play again, and sounds filter into my brain. Rhys! I attempt to turn myself over once more, but the agony shooting through my leg is unbearable, and I whimper. The paralytics must be completely gone because the pain is worse than the blade to my neck, worse than the shoulder injury after my car accident, or the burns from the shower attack.
I manage another gurgled cry before everything goes black.
Too tight ismy first thought after I come to. Someone is holding onto me—no, not holding on. Focus. I'm nestled in someone's lap, arms wrapped around me. Whoever is cradling me is rocking back and forth. Saliva pools in my mouth, and I swallow down the nausea. My body doesn't like the motion. I want to tell whomever it is to stop when something wet hits my face from above.
More noise registers. Commotion to the side of me. Someone barking orders. Feet shuffling. More commands. A hand comes to my face, and I lean into it—a touch as familiar as my own.
"Open your eyes for me, Calla," a voice begs between sobs. I know that voice. I love that voice.
With an excruciating amount of strength, I peel my eyelids back.
Green eyes dulled by tears find mine. "There’s my girl," he breathes.
My stomach flips. "Rhys." I can’t muster more than a whisper, and my lids want to close again, but I force them to remain open.
"Hey, babe." His thumb brushes the moisture under my own eyes away.
"You’re here."
He chuckles. "Where else would I be?"
I attempt to turn toward the noise, but he cages me in. "Don’t."
My forehead scrunches.
"Let me see," I whisper, my pulse increasing with anxiety. What is he hiding?
