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“What about eight of them?” I murmur as the tears start to come, unbidden, once more.
Anya does a valiant job of masking her shock, but I can see it in the way she pales. No one survives eight bullets to the back. God only knows what kind of internal damage he’s sustained beyond exorbitant amounts of blood loss. It’s going to take a miracle to bring Ilya back to me.
39
ILYA
Incessant beeping prods the inside of my skull, waking my irritation as I wish someone would unplug the infuriating device. Maybe throw it across the room. It must be an alarm clock. I’m so tired that just the thought of rising to deal with it myself exhausts me, not surprising, considering I’ve spent the last week shivering outside in the cold as I stalked my prey. I barely got a few hours of sleep each night, my body on watch even after one of my men relieved me to give my mind a break. And now, someone’s stupid, fucking alarm has to disrupt the few hours of peace and quiet I get to look forward to.
Clearly, no one else is bothered by it because I hear rustling of movement, and yet no one stops the beeping. Fine, I’ll turn it off myself. It takes a monumental amount of determination to force my body to move, and as soon as I do, astounding agony rips through my back. It might even make me scream, except the pain is so great that it sucks the air from my lungs, leaving me breathless and silent. But the pain also wakes me.
Like a bolt of lightning, I rise to full consciousness, and my memories return in a flood. I was at dinner with Whitney. We talked about the contract and its impending expiration, and when I told her how I feel about her, she kissed me. The memory is so vivid, I can almost feel her lips on mine, the weight of her in my lap turning me on. Our moment right there in the middle of the restaurant was so surreal, I almost wonder if I might have dreamt it.And the elevator ride down to the lobby afterward, where we couldn’t keep our hands off each other?All of it seems too good to be true. I’m half convinced it was all a dream by the fact that those fleeting moments were some of the best in my life.
But the scene that unfolded after is beyond even my subconscious’s capacity to bring my worst nightmares to life. No, the fear in Whitney’s eyes, my horror at realizing she was about to die, and the feeling of bullets piercing my body again and again–that was all too real. And as I realize that I must have blacked out from the pain, my eyes snap open.Whitney.
My muscles scream in agony as I force myself into a sitting position, determined to find her and make sure she’s okay. The ribs on my left side send shooting pain lancing through my chest. And my lung burns as I struggle to take in a full breath. I’m in excruciating pain, but none of that matters because Whitney could be in danger. I don’t know how long I’ve been out, but the shooters might have come back for her–or worse, I might not have saved her at all.
But as I take in the scene around me, I pause. Rather than lying on the street outside the Lake Pointe Tower, I seem to be in a bed, a hospital bed nonetheless. And suddenly, the persistent beeping makes sense. Come to think of it, it’s doubled in speed with my effort to sit up.
“Ilya,” breathes the voice of an angel, making my heart stutter and the heart monitor trill erratically. And then Whitney is there by my side, her hands reaching out to me, her face etched with concern. “Don’t try to move,” she pleads, and her fingers find my shoulders, as she supports and guides me back toward my pillows.
Her soft touch vanquishes my fleeting thought that she might actually be some form of phantom watching over me–a ghost of Whitney because I was, in fact, too late. But I have to be sure, and I snatch her hand as it leaves my shoulder, gripping it between my hands as I feel her solid warmth. I knead her palm, drawing comfort from the very real tendons and muscles and bones.
“What do you need, love?” she breathes, and her free hand reaches forward to cup my face.
I close my eyes, and cover her hand with mine, holding her palm to my face. “You’re okay,” I say as much to reassure myself of the fact as I do to confirm it.
“I’m okay,” she promises, her hip settling lightly onto the corner of my bed as her thumb strokes my cheek lightly. “You scared theshitout of me. But I’m okay.”
I release a throaty chuckle and then flinch, my eyes snapping shut as my back spasms and my ribs twinge, lighting my body on fire and reminding me I’ve been shot.
“Shhh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t tease you right now. Try not to laugh.”
“Easy for you to say. I can’t help myself when every other sentence out of your mouth is the perfect blend of sarcasm and brutal honesty.” I open my eyes and take in Whitney’s lovely face. I don’t think a man dying of thirst could guzzle more greedily than the way I drink in the sight of her right now. It’s clear from her swollen eyes and the purple shadows beneath them that she’s been crying and, if I had to guess, attempting to sleep in the hospital as well. “What happened?”
“Well, what’s the last thing you remember?” she asks, her tone achingly vulnerable.
“I remember everything,” I assure her vehemently. “Right up until I got shot.”
Relief floods her face, and Whitney leans forward to brush a feather-light kiss across my lips. I desperately want to grab her face and kiss her fiercely, but that must wait. I need to know where things stand and make sure Whitney’s safe.
“You took eight bullets for me,” she breathes, her voice filling with wonder and her eyes glassing with unshed tears. “And then you just collapsed. You were losing so much blood, and I just didn’t know what to do. I thought you might be dead and… when the ambulance came, I couldn’t stand the thought of letting you out of my sight, so I rode with you. They were patching you up, and then…” Whitney falls silent as a solitary tear trickles down her cheek.
It kills me to see her so upset, and my heart swells with a newfound love and appreciation for my woman–that she could care so deeply for a man like me. Reaching up, I brush the tear from her soft skin, and Whitney closes her eyes.
She licks her lips and swallows hard as she collects herself. Then she continues in a trembling voice. “Your heart stopped.” Her eyes meet mine, and the emotion there tells me just how terrified she was. “You died. They had to shock you three times to start it again,” she breathes.
Taking her hand in mine, I brush my lips across her knuckles, trying to ease the pain in her expression. Her lips soften into a small, sad smile.
“You have several fractured ribs, and two bullets punctured your left lung. You lost a lot of blood, but fortunately, the bullets didn’t hit anything else vital. They were able to stabilize you and perform surgery to remove all the bullets. It was touch and go for awhile. They really weren’t confident you would survive…” Whitney shakes her head, her eyes shifting to the floor.
“What became of the men who shot us? Has anyone come after you or–”
Whitney shakes her head, and I relax just slightly.
“Nicolo came to the hospital with Anya, and when he found out they attacked you in Marchetti territory, he kind of flipped out. I guess he got in contact with your men and hunted down the car full of shooters.” The vitriol in Whitney’s tone surprises me, and a fire lights her eyes as satisfaction settles over her face. “They’re dead–every last one–and from what Nicolo says, they died a very painful death.”
My fierce girl. God save the man who faces her wrath because they will find no mercy from her. I love that about her. She’s not afraid to rip someone apart and enjoy it if they do her wrong.
