AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Huh? So you’re?—”
“My fiancée,” Ethan said. “She saved Holly’s bacon, too, by the way. She was the one who took down Nicole.”
“Give credit where credit is due,” Kat said. “Freya helped, and so did you. And so did Holly, for that matter. Team effort. But dudes, please. Later for that. First, the doctor. I mean, look at the poor guy.”
I felt intensely self-conscious. “I know I look like shit, but I’m fine.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Ethan snarled. “Like hell you’re fine. I can barely tell it’s you.” He seized my arm. “Amos, let’s get this guy to the?—”
“Do not push me or drag me,” I said, wrenching my arm away. “Ever.”
Silence fell. The violent edge in my voice had startled them, as if they didn’t know me anymore. Which was literally true. Fuck, I didn’t even know myself.
“Ah, okay,” Ethan said carefully. “Shane? Hello. It’s me. Not Halliwell.”
“I know. Sorry. But nobody tells me where to go or what to do. Ever again.”
Ethan cleared his throat. “I didn’t mean to push you around. It’s just a big brother thing. The bandages on your neck… was that from Vincent’s collar?”
“I wore the fucking thing the whole time they had me,” I said. “However long it’s been. I have no way of knowing.”
Ethan winced. “You will be glad to know that sick fuck is now safely dead. Frey did the honors personally. She shot him right through the heart.”
I blinked. “Frey? Really? She shoots now?”
“She’s a crack shot now. Jed taught her. So, will you formally give your official consent to accept Remy’s and my help down the breezeway, so we don’t have to clean up your bloody footprints after? Please?”
I forced out a shuddering breath, which swiftly devolved into a cough. “Fine,” I said. “But check out Red, too. She’s been through some wild stuff today.”
“First, you,” Red said sternly, looking at me over her little sister’s shoulder.
“We’ll cover everyone, in due time,” Angela fussed. “Come on inside, everyone. There’s dinner waiting. How long has it been since you all had a decent meal?”
I smiled at her, a sensation that almost cracked my jaw. “Since I saw you last.”
“Aww, you flatterer. We’ll get you fed up. Come on, honey. Everyone inside, where it’s warm. Look at you, no coat. I’m surprised you’re not dead from pneumonia.”
We made our way to Ethan’s apartment on the top floor. The two floors below, equally large and deluxe apartments, were mine, and my sister’s. We all had other residences, but this place had always been a favorite. A retreat where we all felt safe.
I should be feeling safe right now, but I realized suddenly that feeling safe was an internal thing. An inside job. If your brain didn’t consent to it, you were screwed.
There was no refuge. Danger was all around. All the time.
There was a confusing few minutes while we figured out what to do first, which culminated in my brother and Remy gingerly herding me, without ever seeming to push, into a bathroom to shower off the blood and dirt before being seen by the doctor.
The hot water stung. I’d gotten slashes, bruises, a graze from a stray bullet, and plenty of contusions from being knocked around on that rocky hillside. No big deal, except for my feet, which had gotten torn up from frantic sprinting over sharp rocks. They’d been very soft, from a year of feeling nothing but the smooth tile floor of my prison for months. The soap and water hurt like a motherfucker. I was standing in a swirling pink puddle for the entire time I was in the shower.
Angela brought up some of my own clothes from my apartment. I barely recognized them, or remembered the man who wore them. Athletic pants, a soft, comfortable sweatshirt. Everything felt loose on me. I looked taut and stringy when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Like I’d been boiled down.
Dr. Josef Demiguel, an old friend of Ethan’s, was waiting for me in the bedroom when I shuffled out of the bathroom.
I submitted to a doctor’s examination, teeth clenched. Demiguel was a short, chubby guy, usually cheerful, but very serious looking tonight. He was as gentle as possible, but having my feet worked on was an ordeal, even with the anesthetic spray. He tweezed out embedded grit, smearing the wounds with salve, put stitches into the slash on my arm. Shone a light into my eyes.
Then, he unwound the bandages that Red had put onto my throat and let out a sharp gasp. “What is this? Did someone try to garrote you? Fifty different times?”
“More or less,” I said, wincing as he explored it with latex-gloved fingers.
“From the sound of it, you have some vocal damage,” he said, his voice worried. “You’ll have to be seen by a voice specialist. Among other things.”
