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Time feels stretched out yet rushed. My scrutiny returns to him. His face is pale, ashen, not at all like my arrogant golden boy.
“Why aren’t you coming with me?” But as the words leave my lips, my brain hammers home the reality of the situation.
Liam pants, grunts, and lies down. His long-sleeved sky-blue Henley is soaked through, crimson now, and blood trickles from his nose.
I lift his shirt, and his body trembles. “Oh God. No! Fuck, Liam!”
As I try to find the source of the bleeding, my fingers only seem to smear it. He grips my wrist to stop me, his eyes glossy and red-rimmed.
“I’ve lost too much blood. I can’t move fast enough. You need to go. Now.” His voice is raw and husky, the strength waning with every word.
“No.” Sobbing, I shake my head, my mind made up. “I won’t leave you. I can’t. I’m so sorry, Liam. I’m so sorry for everything. Please don’t leave me. Please—”
He coughs and sputters, his thumb dusting gingerly over my hand—a dichotomy to the terror encircling us. “You did everythingright, gave me more, were worth it all, baby girl. My gun. Go …” His eyes are so stern, even as I see the life draining from them. “They’re here for you,” he rasps, and a chill skitters up my spine.
I weep into his chest and kiss his forehead. “You are so loved, Liam Graves. My forever family.” Prying his bloody fingers off his gun, I move to a stooping stance.
And I run. And run.
The driveway seems to have lengthened. Seconds morph to days. And my senses stack from overwhelm. All the sounds meld to mine—my ragged breaths, my thrashing pulse, my pounding steps. My sobs. The smell of Liam’s blood coating me and the sweat dripping between my breasts and down my spine. The salt of my tears.
The gothic mansion—home—blurs to a horror house.
I don’t have a fucking key.Why didn’t I grab the keys?I glance back at the car. It’s too far, so I sprint around the garage and break into an Olympic dash to the shooting range.
Damn grains of sand.
It’s all slipping away. Falling through the cracks.
In a blink, I’m at the obstacle course, the shooting range finally in sight.
Almost.
A hand on my mouth. A bump on the head.
“Fucking hell,” someone snarls.
Everything is spotted and muffled and black.
I’m floating. Cloud surfing. Or drowning. Maybe sailing, rocking in waves. Can’t be sure. But there’s a steady motion to it and voices I can’t make out.
Angry or anxious.
Distressed.
My brain is fuzzy.
Someone must be carrying me.
Who the fuck has me? Am I being saved or being taken?
I can’t scream.Why can’t I scream? Or think straight?
Liam.
Did they find Liam?
My eyelids are glued shut. They won’t open, no matter how hard I try. And the motion is making me nauseous. Seasick. I cry out for Wells, wailing about Liam, but all that comes out are garbled moans.
