Dorian slams into me, catching me before I hit the ground, pulling me tight against his chest. He keeps his hand on the back of my head, keeping medown, shielding me with his own body as the chaos continues. The ringing in my ears fades, replaced by this raw, high-pitched scream. I twist in Dorian’s grip and glance over my shoulder.
Leah’s sprawled on the ground, clutching her shoulder. Blood’s soaking through her clothes, and her face is twisted in this wild, angry snarl— the look of someone who just lost everything. Police are already on her, weapons trained and ready.
"Are you hit? Della, are you hit? Talk to me." Dorian’s eyes are scanning my face, my body in a wild, frantic concern.
"I..." I look down at my arm. A long, shallow gash from the glass is bleeding, but I'm not shot. "I... I bit her," I whisper, the words sounding stupid, insane.
A choked, hysterical laugh bursts from his chest. He pulls me tighter, burying his face in my hair, his body shaking.
"I know," he rasps, his voice breaking. "I know. I've got you. You're safe. I've got you."
* * *
Della
"She's secure!" a uniformed officer yells, and I see them hauling a screaming, resisting Leah to her feet, her hands cuffed behind her back.
David is there, a grim-faced shadow, handling the police, pointing to the other two men who are now also in cuffs.
The world is a mess of flashing lights and muffled shouting, my body is a symphony of new aches, and my arm stings where the glass cut me.
"Ma'am? Ma'am, we need to check you out."
A paramedic is kneeling in front of me, a young woman with kind, serious eyes. She has a large bag open on the floor.
"Let her look at you, Della," Dorian murmurs, his grip loosening just enough for the medic to get to me but he doesn't let go.
"That's a nasty gash," the medic says, applying pressure on my arm. "I need to check your vitals. Can you tell me your name?"
"Della Toma," I mumble. My head is swimming, a nauseating combination of vodka, adrenaline, and the lingering fumes of chloroform.
"Okay, Della. I'm just going to—"
It hits me then, a violent, full-body rejection. The vodka. My stomach clenches, and I lurch forward, shoving myself away from Dorian. "I'm... I'm gonna be sick."
I barely make it two steps before I'm on my hands and knees on the pavement, my body convulsing as I throw up, the burn of alcohol and bile searing my throat. It's ugly and undignified.
A strong hand settles on my back, and another gently holds my hair away from my face. Dorian. He doesn't flinch. He just stays there, a solid presence in the spinning chaos, rubbing my back until the heaving stops.
I'm left shaking, my throat raw, but my head is clearer.
The medic is there with a bottle of water.
"Rinse," she says gently. After I do, she tries again.
“Della, how much did you drink?”
I try to laugh. It comes out as a rasp. “Ask the psycho with the bottle.”
“She was forced,” Dorian snaps.
The medic doesn’t respond to him. She focuses on me.
"You've had a serious shock, and you've ingested an unknown amount of alcohol. We need to take you to the hospital; get you checked out."
The word hits me like a slap. Hospital.
The last time I was in a hospital, I woke up to find my life had been carved out, leaving an empty, aching void.
