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I look up to find Dmitri standing huge right in front of me, shielding me with his body. His arms are raised as though?—
BANG. BANG.
Yes, he is in fact returning fire. And he’s not the only one. I can just make Bee out where she’s taking cover behind Dmitri’s car. But she’s not cowering down in fear like I am.
No, she’s got a gun in her hands, just like Dmitri does.
And just like him, she’s shooting back.
As it sinks in, I become aware of the chaos raining down on us from all sides. I can hear the wail of sirens, the high-pitched screams of fear, the shattering of glass, the endless report of gunfire. I cup my hands over my ears and fall back on a soothing mechanism that I developed around the time Dad left us and Mom started going loopy.
“One.” Deep breath. “Two.” Deep breath. “Three.” Deep breath. “Four.” Deep breath. “Five.”
More gunshots. Louder. Closer. I can hear them even over the sound of my terrified heart throbbing in my ears and my cupped hands. I feel like my pulse is in my throat.
Shadows converge around me. More huge men. I hear them murmuring, talking over each other in harsh, staccato bursts.
“How many more?”
“Emptied the clip, but…”
“Is she okay?”
I’m not sure who’s asking. Aleksandr? Pavel? Bee? I can’t even distinguish between real and unreal right now, much less male and female.
“Leave it. I’ve got her.”
Strangely, that voice I can recognize.
I’m lifted off the ground and transferred into the back of a dark vehicle. I focus on Dmitri, on his bulk and scent. I grab his arm just before he closes the door on me. “Stay with me.”
It’s nothing but morbid fear that makes me ask. He glances to his left, then his right, and finally, he nods. He climbs in with me at the same time that Bee jumps into the front seat and punches the roof of the jeep. “Move out.” As the jeep speeds off, Bee twists in her seat to look back at us. “Is she okay? Is she hurt?”
His hands pat me down, thorough but gentle. “She’s fine. She didn’t get hit.”
But as I trail my eyes down his body, I realize he did. “Oh my God!” I gasp, pointing at his arm. “Blood.”
He glances at his arm dismissively. “Barely worth noting.”
“Y-you’re hurt.” A desperate sob leaves my lips. “You’re hurt because of me.” It seems very clear that he wouldn’t be bleeding from the arm if he hadn’t thrown himself in front of me.
He grabs my face firmly, forcing me to look him in the eye. “This is not your fault. Do you hear me? None of this is your fault.”
Those silver eyes are so calming. All of him is, really. He’s holding me tight, his arms wrapped around my body like he knows how badly I need the physical reassurance. I’m holding onto him every bit as tightly.
I should let go. I should put some distance between us.
But instead, I just cling on that much tighter.
42
WREN
The gifted knife was one thing.
But the guns? The shooting? The high speed drive back to the penthouse?
Too.
