“Brother,” I breathe, stepping forward and then freezing, terrified of what waits on the other side. “Please…”
I don’t even know what I’m begging for.
For him to be alive?
For itnotto be Eli?
Spike moves ahead of me, jaw tight, shoulders squared like he’s walking into a firing squad.
He reaches the front of the chair.
He stops dead.
“He’s alive,” Spike blurts, voice breaking into something not even he can control. “Get the fucking van. We need to get him to the hospital…now.”
That’s all I need.
I rush forward, step in front of the chair…and nearly throw up.
My pretty boy sits slumped in chains, his face under duct tape wrapped so thick it’s practically molded to his skin.
Blood streaks down his face from a gash on his forehead.
More blood…too much…runs down his throat.
But it’s the hand around his neck that hits me like a hammer.
I follow the arms down and see him.
Knuckles.
My brother.
Dead.
Pale.
Eyes open but gone.
A small, peaceful smile frozen on his face.
“He’s dead,” Spike whispers. His voice fractures. “Damnit, Knuckles.”
Foster steps in, hands already reaching. “Help me lower him so we can get to Eli…careful…careful.”
But my vision tunnels.
Everything goes blurry except Eli.
“He’s alive, brother,” Spike says gently. “Look at his eyes.”
My hands shake as I force myself to look.
And there they are.
Eli’s eyes…open and wet with tears, blood drying on his skin, terror still stamped across his face…but alive.
So fucking alive.
