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In front of the intruder, partially obscured by his broad frame, a man was tied to one of the dining chairs. His back was toward me as well, but he had a familiar narrow frame and dark hair. Blood pooled below him on the white marble floor beneath him; red smears and spatters marked the marble floor and Boca do Lobo dining table.
My breath tried to come in great, panicked gasps, but I silenced them. The man hadn’t seen me. I could still leave, turn around and run for help.
But leave Elio? There was no deep-seated emotional attachment between us, but still, something kept my feet rooted in place.
My eyes fixed on the pool of blood, slowly spreading across the cold marble. But how much blood?
My mind switched into a clinical analysis, detached from the urgency of the situation. I began calculating, attempting to gauge the extent of the blood loss, assessing the size of the pool, its density, and the rate at which it expanded. Amidst the danger, my brain couldn’t help but engage in its instinctive habit of seeking answers, seeking order.
Half a liter, my mind determined. Approximately half a liter of Elio’s blood was no longer in his body. Not immediately fatal, but he had no time to spare.
Just leave,the Ice Queen cajoled. I’d spent seventeen years looking out for number one. Now wasn’t the time to change philosophical principles.
And yet, I crept forward not back, eyeing the knife block on the sleek, black granite counter. My hands were shaking. God only knew if I’d be able to hold the knife, never mind stab the man with it.
I think they were talking, loudly, but not loud enough that I could make out any words. Only sounds, some of them angry, some of them desperate.
I kept my eyes on the broad fighter’s back as I reached for the nearest knife and gripped the handle in one trembling hand.
Calm down,I barked silently.It’s just like a scalpel. Simple. Easy. An extension of my arm.
I took a step forward, then another. I could only assume my feet moved silently because he didn’t turn around.
One more step, and I was right behind him, my view of Elio still obscured. But even more vivid than the fighter, or his sandalwood and bergamot scent, or the contrast of his charcoal gray suit against his sandy blond hair, was the shiny black gun in his hand, his finger poised on the trigger.
He was going to kill Elio. He was going to kill him right in front of me.
I felt the cold, just like in the water, surrounding me, making me shiver to the bone and gasp for breath.
My hand shook as I raised my arm, gripping the knife with every ounce of strength I possessed.
“No!” Elio cried. “Please—"
The gun went off, a muffled explosion in comparison to the ones I’d heard before, but it brought to mind the ringing. The blood. The holes in my parents’ heads and their lifeless eyes. The spider. I could see it, crawling all over the man in front of me, burrowing into him,becominghim.
Kill it,I screamed silently.
Instinctually, without forethought, I brought the knife down. Hard. Fast. It punctured his suit, then his skin and went deeper. Subcutaneous tissue.
And then the blade hit bone.
The sudden stop jarred my arm all the way up to my shoulder.
He yanked himself away and spun around.
There was no spider on his face. Nothing about him that I’d expected at all. No pockmarked skin or tall forehead. No beady eyes or snub nose.
This face was chiseled jaw, sharp cheekbones, unmarred skin, and full lips.
This man was… beautiful, and utterly masculine.
He took a step back, the gun raised in his hand.
I still had the knife, but it was like brandishing a plastic fork against a majestic lion.
A majestic lion who hadn’t killed Elio; the man in the chair wasn’t him. I could see the man with the swimmer’s build now—his long, narrow face, his hooked nose, his lifeless brown eyes. This was Owen Thompson, Elio’s VP.
I’d risked my life for a complete stranger, a man who’d made my skin crawl the few times I’d laid eyes on him.
