Relief made my head spin. If he could talk, then surely it meant he wasn’t injured too badly. He flinched as I scrambled off him. Whit groaned, clutching the right side of his abdomen. Blood stained his blue shirt; his hands were already covered in it.
“You are not fine. We have to get out of here.” Instinctively, I covered both of his hands and pressed down.
He hissed sharply. “Get off, get off, get off.”
“Don’t we have to stop the bleeding?” I cried loudly.
“I have not lost my hearing,” he gasped between breaths. “The ceiling is about to come down on top of us.”
He tried to sit up, his face bleached of all color. I helped him struggle to his feet, his soft groans piercing my heart.
“I have never been shot before,” he said in a marveling tone. “I really don’t like it.”
He tripped, and I dragged one of his arms over my shoulder. “Just a few more feet,” I coaxed. “As quick as you can.”
He glanced up at the sudden noise rending the air. “Where is Isadora?”
I looked over my shoulder. Only her hand was visible underneath all of the rubble. It lay motionless. I shook my head at him, and his lips flattened. The ceiling moaned and cracked as more rocks fell, crashing around us.
“Go. Without me, go,” Whit said, his lips white. “Go.”
What utter nonsense. I held on tighter, and he seemed to understand that in order to save me, he had to save himself. He looked murderous. But then his expression turned to one of resignation and he allowed me to keep helping him. We managed to fling ourselves out of the entrance, Whit clutching his side while I tugged on his free hand, down the rocky path and toward the moored boat. Behind us, the sound of the rocks crashed and shattered, and the ground shook under our feet. I helped Whit the rest of the way, step by step, his movements unsteady and stumbling.
“Wait, wait,” he said. “I need a minute.”
He fought to keep his breathing steady, but sweat dripped down the sides of his face. His hair lay flat across his brow, and his shoulders were hunched, as if he were trying to protect himself from another blow.
“We have to keep going,” I said, reaching for him. “You need medical attention.”
Whit nodded and allowed me to shepherd him to the boat. I pushed with both hands, and he watched me helplessly as I struggled to get as much of the boat back into the water as I could. I helped him swing his legs over, to which he let out a truly foul string of curses and then dropped inside.
“Face the stern,” he said weakly. “The back of the boat.”
I did as he instructed and then looked at him again for more guidance. I took up the oars, placing them back into the hooks and awkwardlyattempted to navigate us back to Alexandria’s coastline. Whit watched me silently, his breathing shallow. “I wish I could help you.”
“Don’t talk,” I said. “Conserve your strength. I’ll get us there.”
He smiled faintly. “I know.”
Then he tipped his head backward, propping it against the opposite bench, and closed his eyes. I was half-terrified that he’d never open them to glare at me again, half-glad that he was actually doing what I asked him to do. My mind replayed Isadora lifting her arm, hand steady and wrapped around the pistol’s handle. Her expression of utter hatred when she pulled the trigger.
Whit had pushed me out of the way. Saved my life.
And he could die because of it.
I clutched the ends of the oars tighter. I wasn’t going to let that happen.
Before long, our boat was almost at the end of the dock—I could just see it as the sun dawned, turning the sky a resplendent gold. He would be all right. Our driver was waiting for us in his carriage. We only had to make it back to the hotel where I could order the staff to find a local physician.
Whit would not die.
He cracked an eye open. “You’re doing great, sweetheart.”
“Stop talking,” I snapped. The bottom right of his shirt was covered in his blood. It’d never be clean again. “Do you think I should wrap the wound? I could use a petticoat.”
Whit seemed highly amused by this prospect. “Aren’t damsels always providing petticoats when the hero is in dire straits?”
“Aren’t you always telling me that you’re not a hero?” I retorted.
