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“Charlotte, stay with him. I’m getting the car.” Desmond sprints back to the car, his body slicing through the dark.
“Lyric.” I kneel before him, scanning his body. It’s too dark to see how injured he is, but I can see how his shirt clings to him, how his breathing is short and clipped, and how shadows linger under his eyes.
He coughs. “Just a flesh wound.”
I rip the hem of his shirt and press it against his wound, trying to stop the bleeding. My hands are shaking, but I force myself to focus, to be the protector Lyric needs right now.
“Hang in there,” I whisper, my voice wavering. “Desmond will be back soon.”
Lyric’s eyes flutter open, and he manages a weak smile. “I knew you’d come,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible. “Knew Matty would go right to you.”
“Of course,” I reply, my heart aching as I try to keep the fear from my eyes. “We’ll get through this together.”
Minutes stretch into eternity as we wait for Desmond’s return. Each passing second feels like a weight on my chest, the fear that we might lose Lyric clawing at my insides, but I can’t afford to let it show. I need to be strong for both Lyric and myself.
“Hold on, Lyric,” I whisper, my hand gripping his tightly. “You’re going to be okay. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
For the second time that night, I find myself holding fabric to a gunshot wound, my heart hammering in my chest. The dark night is a canvas painted with fear and uncertainty, but I’m determined to be the protector Lyric needs right now.
There is so much blood. It soaks through the makeshift bandage, staining my hands and serving as a stark reminder of the danger that surrounds us.
The screech of tires pierces the tense atmosphere, and I turn to see Desmond, who has hopped the curb and thrown the car in park. He exits the vehicle with his cell phone pressed to his ear, his voice hurried and sharp. “Just set it up.” He tosses the phone into the car and runs back to us. “Everyone is two minutes out, but I’m not waiting.” Desmond crouches before us, his eyes hard but determined. “Can you stand, or do I have to carry your ass?”
Lyric glares at Desmond, but his eyes show a subtle, almost imperceptible flicker of gratitude. It’s as if, in this moment, the walls he’s built around himself have cracked just a bit, allowing us to see the vulnerability beneath. He may not admit it, but he knows he’s not alone and that we’re here to protect him.
“I can stand,” Lyric says through gritted teeth, pushing himself up with a grimace. He’s clearly in pain, but his determination matches Desmond’s.
As a light rain mists around us, I take one side of Lyric, while Desmond goes to his other side. Urgency fuels our movements as we synchronize to get him into the back. Lyric doesn’t complain once, not even as I force my way in beside him and continue to press the fabric to his wound.
“Exit wound?” Desmond’s voice is a mix of concern and focus as he peels out of the truck stop.
“Yeah.” Lyric coughs weakly. “I forgot how much I hate being a bullet sponge.”
“That implies you often play target practice,” I quip, trying to keep the mood light amidst the tension.
“No, dove. I prefer darts,” he retorts, a hint of humor in his strained voice.
“Glad to see your sense of humor is intact,” I retort, pressing fabric against his wound. He winces, and a small smile flickers on his lips, despite the situation.
Desmond glances back at us through the rearview mirror, his eyes serious. “We’re almost there. Just hold on a little longer, Lyric.”
Lyric lets out a pained chuckle. “I’m not going anywhere,” he mutters, his eyes fluttering shut. “Yet,” he adds, managing to retain his sarcastic edge. “I’m going to milk this for all it’s worth.”
Once again, I catch Desmond’s expression in the rearview mirror—slightly annoyed but with a hint of a smile. “You do have a flair for the dramatic, Lyric.”
“How is Matty?” Lyric turns serious for a beat.
“He’s with Dom,” I tell him. “He’s okay.” At least I hope so.
“He got shot when I told him to get the hell out of there,” Lyric explains between coughs.
Desmond grits his teeth and steps on the gas, determination evident in his eyes. “We’re going to get you sorted, Lyric, and then you can have a grand reunion and annoy each other all you want.”
“I’m holding you to that,” Lyric says weakly, and despite the pain, there’s a glint of mischief in his eyes.
“Close,” Desmond announces. His driveway comes into view, with the trees on either side looming over us.
“Shouldn’t we take him to a hospital?” I question the logistics of bringing him back to the mansion.
