Fires again.
Cortéz screams as his other leg detonates under him. He collapses, dragging himself backward until he hits the wall.
“I’m going to kill you,” he snarls through his teeth.
Knuckles ignores him.
He stumbles behind me, hands fumbling at the chains, breath rattling.
I can hear him struggling to breathe. Every inhale is a wet, liquid drag. Every exhale trembles.
He’s dying on his feet.
Forme.
I’m so focused on him that I don’t realize Cortéz has risen to one knee.
I don’t see the gun until it’s halfway to my face.
“Fucking Shadows,” Cortéz spits, raising the weapon. “You should’ve just fallen in line.”
He pulls the trigger.
I squeeze my eyes shut…but there’s no pain.
Instead, something heavy slams into my chest, knocking the air from my lungs. The bolted chair holds steady.
When I open my eyes, Knuckles is on me.
Literally, on top of my body…shielding me.
His body collapses over my lap, warm and trembling and already soaking through my jeans with blood.
My blood? His blood?
A strangled sound bursts from my throat, muffled by the duct tape.
Knuckles coughs wetly, the sound rattling with fluid. His hand, shaking so violently it barely obeys him…finds my cheek.
“Hey… sweetheart…” he whispers, voice shredded to pieces. “Would’ve… been rude… to let you die first.”
No. No. No.
My cries come out broken, suffocated, desperate…just a stream of terrified noise trapped behind sticky silver tape.
He smiles. A weak, crooked thing full of pain and pride.
“I’d… much rather die… protecting my family…” His chest stutters. “...than from…fucking…cancer.”
My tears fall, and I try desperately to get enough oxygen through my nose.
He tries to lift himself, maybe to say more, maybe to comfort me, but his arms give out, and he settles heavily against me.
“And you,” he breathes, eyes drifting but still somehow soft on me, “you made the end… not so lonely.”
Another cough. More blood. Too much blood.
“Thank you… sweetheart.”
