Gracie leaving.
Gracie being taken.
The sound of her cry when she’d been struck.
Then just… rage.
So much that I barely even registered the burning sensation of the first bullet.
Those second and third ones, though, those were a bitch.
But nothing was as painful as Gracie’s screams, of seeing her attacking Cameron on her own, of her busted face as she came running over to me.
The only comforting thought to ease the pain I felt was that her dad was there, her family was there, that they would take care of her, keep her safe, no matter what happened to me.
I tried to lift my arm, but felt a pinched weight at my shoulder, making pins and needles prick up and down my arm.
It was then that I looked down.
That I knew what the weight was.
Gracie.
She was curled around me, her head on my chest, her leg wedged between my thighs, her hand resting over my heart.
Gracie, who didn’t smell like herself. She smelled like antiseptic and antibiotic creams.
My mind flashed back to the old bagel shop, to the blood on her wrists, her hands, her legs, and, yeah, her face.
They’d taken her somewhere to get help.
Then she’d somehow managed to find her way to me.
I knew I should have been worried that the club would find out, that they’d see her curled over me and come to all the right conclusions.
I just didn’t give a fuck.
My arm tightened around her.
I felt her coming awake, her body jolting slightly, her breath gasping inward.
“You’re okay,” I murmured.
“I’mokay?” she asked, pulling up to look down at me.
Christ.
Her face looked rough. Scratches and bruises were everywhere. She had a pretty impressive black eye going on.
I tried to lift my other arm to reach out toward it, but the pain sliced through the meds dripping into my veins, making a grunt escape me as my arm fell heavily back down on the mattress.
“You were shot,” she said, tone soft, like she was informing me for the first time.
A strange little laugh escaped me at that. “No shit.” She rolled her eyes at that. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Don’t lie.”
