Clay jerks.
Blood sprays across my face, warm and shocking.
His grip loosens.
And he drops.
I crumple with him, coughing, choking, dragging air into my torn throat. His weight drags me down with him and as fast as I can take in breath it sucks out leaving my lungs sharp and my ribs screaming.
Through my spotted vision, I seeDamian. Staggering. Blood dripping from his temple, smeared down his neck, soaking his shirt. His eyes lock on mine. The gun drops from his hand and clanks to the floor. His expression is savage. But he’s alive. He’s fucking alive.
He sways, unsteady, like something inside him just shattered. Then he drops to his knees and crawls the last few feet toward me like he’s being pulled by some invisible thread, his whole body trembling.
“Lo,” he breathes, voice wrecked and raw. “Lo, look at me.”
His hands are everywhere—my shoulders, my face, my neck, my arms—scanning for wounds. His palms leave streaks of red across my skin. Is it mine? His? I can’t tell.
He rips his shirt over his head and starts wiping the blood off me in frantic, desperate strokes.
There’s a wound high on his perfect chest—a deep, wet bloom just above his heart, bloody and weeping.
“You’re shot,” I gasp. My voice cracks. “You’re hurt, Damian—you’re hurt.”
I reach for it, but he catches my wrist.
“Lo,” he grits. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding,” I cry. “You’re bleeding!”
“I don’t care.” His voice breaks. “I don’t fucking care, Angel. I need to hold you. Needed to know you were still—” He chokes off the rest. Buries his face in my neck. “I can’t lose you.”
I sob into him, fists clutching at his bare back, pressing to his slick, torn skin. His heart pounds against mine—fast, frantic, and alive.
“You didn’t,” I whisper. “You didn’t lose me.”
And I swear I feel him break—just a little—in my arms.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
DAMIAN
Neve crashes beside us, a ragged sob ripping through her chest as she throws her arms around Lo. I sit back on my ass, barely able to sit upright, blood wet and heavy in my shirt. My breath wheezes, my body throbbing with pain and something close to relief.
I glance across the ruined stage, and my eyes land on Bridger. He looks stunned. Shell-shocked. His eyes are locked on Clay’s body, like he can’t believe the bastard is actually dead. Cody’s got his arm around him, half-holding him up. There’s blood everywhere. On Bridger’s shirt. On Cody’s hands. On me. And yet—Cody’s smiling. Actually fucking smiling.
“You guys good?” I croak, every word scraping my throat raw. My chest is on fire, and I know there’s a bullet in me, somewhere above my heart, but right now I don’t care. I just need to hear them say they’re alive.
Bridger blinks like he’s just been asked if he wants cream in his coffee. “Dad shot me,” he says, stunned.
Cody lets out a dry, deranged laugh. “He shot me too.”
And I don’t know why—maybe it’s the blood loss or the relief or the fact that Clay’s lying dead beside me, his blood soaking into my jeans—but I laugh. A short, broken, breathless thing thatturns into something real. The sound of it spills out, catches Lo, catches Neve, catches them all. Lo’s still clinging to me, tears drying on her cheeks, red welts around her throat. It kills me to see them, but when she laughs too, I can’t stop.
Bridger coughs out a breath. “This,” he says, waving a hand at all of us, “is called a trauma-induced inappropriate affect. It’s a common psychological response to?—”
“Shut up, Bridger,” Cody and I say in unison.
We’re still laughing when Lo leans in, kisses my temple, and whispers, “You’re really okay?”
