AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“You’re all over the news. Best to keep your head down,” he tells me.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
I scream as gunfire breaks out around us. “Stay down!” Tony roars. I don’t. Can’t. I search for Callan. He’s out there. What if he gets injured? A man dressed in black appears from the side of the building, a large gun resting on his forearm as he litters the air with bullets, shooting at us. Everything happens at once, too quick and not fast enough. I want this to be over. The car clangs as bullets spray the metal. I scream and try to scramble away, but I’m too hurt, weak. I search the back seat frantically, but there are no bullets inside. “We’re safe. It’s bulletproof,” Tony shouts over the gunfire.
There is a roar of anger from outside the vehicle that draws my head away from the man who is trying to hurt us, to where Callan is now pushing Isabella backwards out of harm's way and into Stalin’s chest. Callan laughs manically, and I watch in horror as he draws his weapon, walking without fear towards the psycho shooting at us. He doesn’t falter or blink, not even when a bullet whips past him. I cry out, terrified for him, but he’s so calm. Lethal and unfazed by the danger he is in. He aims, fires, and the man drops forward, dead. I’m clutching my throat. What the hell just happened? I knew he was dangerous, suspected he had killed, but I’ve never seen someone welcome gunfire and walk towards it. He showed no respect for his own life, just that of Isabella’s.
“Oh my God.”
“Zara, get the fuck down.” Tony snaps. How the hell is he so indifferent to all of this? “Zara,” he snaps, blinking me back into action. “Head down.”
I nod in understanding. The last thing I want now is to be seen. I want to slink into a hole and hide, recover. I don’t want to be hounded by the press. I slip down in the back seat, resting my head, and as soon as we begin to cruise, I feel myself giving in to sleep. I’m woken briefly as I’m moved from the car, and the next time I come to, I find myself in a spacious room. The high ceilings and metal sleeper beams overhead remind me of a warehouse, but nothing about the furnishings suggest that to be true. I’m on a drip and pain-free mostly, just uncomfortable. I know I should be in considerable pain, but the washy sensation tells me I’m on strong painkillers.
Jefferson steps in and smiles when he sees me alert.
“Oh, you’re awake. You look worse than it is.” He smiles kindly at me.
I scoff and relax back on the cushion, wincing at the amount of pain I'm in.“Well, that’s a relief,” I mutter, finding my throat is still causing a tickly rasp. He looks back over his shoulder at me. I smirk and roll my eyes, but it starts a slow throb in my skull, so I make a mental note not to do it again.
“I’m sure you feel terrible, and rightly so. One fractured rib and a mild concussion, the rest is just cosmetic bruising. No internal bleeding. Somehow, you managed to withstand hell. You’re a strong cookie, Miss Reid,” he muses, checking my vitals and jotting something down. “How are you feeling?” He looks directly at me and shines a light in my eyes.
“Like I don't like the light.” I’ll happily live in the dark for a month after those lights the Yovenko’s tortured me with.
“Any pain?” he wonders, moving from one side of the bed to the other.
“Honestly, I ache all over. I feel stiff and sore,” I say, meeting his eyes through my swollen ones.
“You’ve been out for just over four days. We sedated you. You were dehydrated, exhausted. Your body needs to heal. Would you like some food, water?” Jefferson looks to me from the end of the bed, and his soft and sympathetic look makes my gut twist. It’s a reminder of what I have just survived.
“Please.” I’ve never been a fan of water, but right now, I could glug down a gallon, and it still wouldn’t feel enough. I want to bathe in it and stick a funnel in my mouth. “Can you not let anyone know I’m awake?” I say in a rush as he nears the door. I can’t possibly cope with any interaction right now. Even this short time with Jefferson has worn me out. He stops his hand on the handle as he looks at me, questioning. “I just need to process.” Pulling on some hair, I twiddle it through my fingers, chewing on my lip to avoid my mouth trembling. Internally, I’m screaming to get it together, but there is a small part of me that calmly tells me to let it in, accept what has happened, and leave it behind.
Nodding, he gives me a sad smile.“I can try, but this has been like a swing door,” he comments dryly and steps through, closing said door behind him. I avert my gaze and look to the ceiling. My eyes are open, but I can still see that place, smell it, feel it. Their faces are as potent and detailed as they were only days ago. Voices, thick and accented, ring through my brain, mocking, vile, a sickening combination that I wish to seek solace from. I almost want Jefferson to put me back to sleep—anything to not feel or think again.
The door swings open, just like Jefferson predicted, and Callan stands there, chest heaving. I roll my head away and close my eyes. Why is he here? He’s done his job.
I hear his voice, the muted rumble, it’s an odd comfort, but I hear no words. I physically and mentally cannot survive any more trauma, and my heart has already broken. Being in his presence is nothing more than a kick to the gut. He’s there right in my face, waving, clicking his fingers. I blink, but my focus is blank, not on him but neither anywhere else. My skin tingles from where he touches it. My face is being shaken, and he is calling silent words over his shoulder.
I see from some disjointed view, watching from another place, a window into my life as this all happens. Even from this angle, I will him away. It’s too painful. I don't want even a footprint of his existence in my life. I shut him out. Remove him, close my shattered heart. He is an echo.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I wake slowly and groan as the usual wave of pain lingers throughout. I’ve been in bed for days, and although the pain meds are helping, I need to be mobile. I want to get out of bed, and after a few attempts, I manage to sit upright and bring my legs around so they are hanging off the edge of the bed. A movement to my right has my head turning. Callan is stalking towards me.
“Zara, what are you doing?” he mutters, trying to lift my legs and lie me back. He cups my face, and I hold from flinching. He looks at me, right at me, like all those times when he would simply watch me. It’s the biggest slap in the face when I know the woman he loves is probably next door. I stare hard enough until all I can see is my own reflection in his hard gaze.
“Jefferson,” I demand, twisting my face away. I can’t look at him. Something in me won’t allow it.
“What’s up? I can help. Zara. Let me help.” Callan’s heavily tattooed hand comes up and tries to smooth my hair away. I fix my stare on something on the wall.
“I need Jefferson,” I tell him calmly—too calmly after the stunt he pulled. How does Isabella feel about all of this?
He grates out a deep sigh and stands.“I never meant to hurt you. It was never my intention,” he tells me grimly. Good, I hope he feels guilty.
“Those without intention usually cause the most damage,” I murmur, recalling something my father once said. I never truly understood the meaning until now.
