If I had just stayed quiet that night at Trina’s party. If I hadn’t told her what her boyfriend tried to do. If I had been smarter, less impulsive, less foolish—
“Talk to me, Mira.”
Zacharie’s voice cuts through the spiral, sharp with concern.
It just makes me want to cry.
He’s the one who’s been shot. He’s the one losing blood, fighting to stay conscious, surrounded by paramedics trying to keep him stable. And he’s worried about me?
I slowly turn my gaze to his.
But instead of seeing his face—those blue eyes I love, that sharp jaw, the mouth that kissed me awake just hours ago—all I can see is Tanya.
Her condescending smile.
Her cutting words.
Agents like him don’t grow on trees. Civilians who get them killed, unfortunately, do.
The ambulance lurches to a stop.
Doors fly open, daylight flooding the cramped interior, and the paramedics are already moving, unlocking the stretcher wheels, preparing to rush him inside.
All I can think is—
“Mira?”
Zacharie got lucky this time.
But what about the next?
The paramedics try to pull the stretcher out, but Zacharie’s grip on my hand only tightens. I can see him fighting to stay conscious, his eyelids heavy, his face growing paler by the second. The shoulder wound is worse than he admitted—of course it is, he’d never tell me the truth if he thought it would scare me—and still he holds on.
Still he refuses to let go.
“Mira—”
“Sir, you have to let go of her hand.” One of the paramedics, firm but not unkind. “We need to get you inside now.”
I look at him.
Beautiful.
Bleeding.
Burdened with someone like me.
“I’m sorry,” I hear myself say.
The words come from somewhere far away.
God, oh God.
And then I wrench my hand out of his hold.
“But I don’t want this kind of life with you.”
“What are you—Mira—”
