Where my men are…
My men.
Four missing.
One dead.
“Hunter,” I breathe, cutting her off. “I can’t go to the meeting or de-whatever it’s called. I need to go back.”
I push past her, my heart racing, my eyes seeing nothing but him, him,him.
She grabs me again, and I whirl around, jerking my arm free as anxiety turns to blinding panic. “I have to go back. I have to. He needs me.”
“What are you talking about?” she practically hisses. “You arenotgoing back there, Isabella, so help me God.”
“Leave him the fuck out of this,” I hiss right back, my jaw pulsing. “God didn’t help me out there when I held Hunter while he died. He didn’t help me when four of the five people I love more than my own life were taken from me. He didn’t help me when I was being ra–” I suck in a sharp breath, swallowing the words down before I can unceremoniously spill them out in this sterile bathroom. I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter. I refuse to allow him to rot out there alone. I’m going, and I’m bringing him back.”
“Hunter?” she asks, her throat bobbing. “You’re going back for Hunter?”
“Of fucking course I am!” I growl, backing up. If I’m lucky, Oliver will take me for another run through this hellish maze before Evelyn, Madeline, or anyone else can catch up. “He doesn’t deserve to be left alone.” This time, my voice breaks, and try as I might, I can’t stop it.
Her entire body seems to soften, making me pause. “Oh, sweetheart,” she coos, brushing my hair from my face. Leaning forward, she cups my cheeks and bends to meet my eyes. “Hunter is here, Isabella.” I suck in a breath. “And he’s very muchalive.”
Chapter 18
My head throbs witha relentless, pounding ache, as if my brain is trying to claw its way out of my skull. Nausea washes over me, and I’m trapped in a disorienting fog. I struggle to make sense of where I am, my eyelids heavy anduncooperative. Blinking again and again, I try to force my eyes open, but they’re so fucking heavy.
Around me, I can hear the sounds of a hospital—soft murmurs, the beep of machines, and distant voices. Panic begins to claw at my chest as my heart races, the overwhelming sensation that something is wrong washing over me.
Desperation makes my insides twist as I attempt to move, but my limbs betray me, unresponsive and heavy. Fear takes hold as I realize that I’m trapped, unable to escape, to move.
What the fuck?
Am I dead?
Buried alive?
My heart hammers, and distantly, I hear something beeping wildly. That’s a good sign, right?
I try to move again. Nothing.
Okay, bad sign. Bad,badsign. I inhale slowly, and air shoves its way up my nose uncomfortably.
I think I groan or grunt.
Then I freeze.
That’s progress. I inhale deeply again, getting another thick rush of air. This time, my groan is a gag turned cough.
Fuck yeah. I’m not dead. Dead people don’t cough.
And then, it all rushes back. The parking lot, the chaos, the gunfire. The moment when I threw myself in front of that bullet to save Ella’s life. Wrapping my body around hers, pulling her away from the pandemonium that erupted. The searing pain, the knowledge that I might not make it.
And the most haunting memory of all—the sadness etched on Ella’s tear-streaked, freckled face as she sobbed and begged me to get up.
I think I told her I love her.
I feel my brows pull together. Another good sign.
