Chapter 1
Clara
No amount of self-defense training prepares you for a gun pointed straight at you. No leg sweep or forearm block is going to do anything against a bullet.
Smith’s furious face halts my mind as he aims, rolls out of a grapple, then aims again. At me.
I freeze.
The one thing I’ve trained myself not to do—and it’s the only thing I can do. My instincts force my body to shut down while my brain goes into overdrive. This time, though, is different. This time, there’s nothing in my brain but earsplitting, silent screams while I wait for the inevitable.
Then, bare feet fall from the sky, followed by a mass of gray, a blond braid slumping across my face as the bang of the gun ricochets off the stone behind me. Jansen, my brave, sunshiny trouble, crumples into my arms, his smile a direct contrast to the wine-dark blood seeping from his chest.
“Jansen,” I mutter, his weight too much for me to hold as I crumble at the top of the stairs.
“Beautiful,” falls from his lips like a prayer. A prayer I’m not capable of answering.
Falk crouches beside me, the chaos in the courtyard barely registering, as I hold Jansen’s gaze, terrified that the moment he closes his eyes will be the last time I see their multifaceted green. There’s already blood. I don’t want his blood anywhere but inside him.
“Keep him awake,” Falk says, his hands jammed against Jansen’s chest, his top half bare, his face grim.
“Leave the boy.” The order comes from behind me, and I don’t need to turn to know that it’s Trips’ father. “Go deal with Smith.”
Falk meets my panicked gaze, his face grim but determined. He gives me a small nod, a meaningless message with the panic flooding my body, but I take his place, holding pressure against Jansen with Falk’s discarded shirt, shouting Jansen’s name as his eyelids flutter.
Weight in my pocket barely registers, and Falk leaves me with my lover’s blood on my hands and the express knowledge that Trips’ dad is going to let him bleed out on his front steps. I glance at him, and he meets my eyes, his face saying what can’t be heard over the commotion in the drive.You did this to yourself. This is the price you pay for trying to fight back.
Then a shot rings out near me, Trips’ dad ducking into the safety of the house. I can’t focus on him, though. I’m still chanting Jansen’s name, even as his eyes stay shut longerand longer.
Someone muscles close, and I panic as they go to lift Jansen from the steps, the scream that was locked in my head for what feels like an eternity forced from my lips.
“Clara, it’s me,” Trips growls, and I register first the gun in his hand before I follow its trajectory to a broad chest I recognize.
He scoops up Jansen once he sees I’m not going to fight him, and sprints for the SUV in the drive. I dash after him, taking the driver’s seat as Trips hauls himself and Jansen into the back. “Drive. I’ve got the key,” he shouts. Perched on the edge of the seat so I can reach the pedals, I take off down the drive, only moving the seat forward after I make it through the gate, the guard’s shocked face coming too late for him to keep us onsite.
“Take a left at the light!” he yells as I glance in the rearview mirror, only able to see Trips’ furious face as he uses his weight to keep as much of Jansen’s blood in his chest as possible.
“Your father will send him to jail.”
“Better jail than dead. I can’t risk another of you again. I can’t,” he bites back.
Forcing my brain to work, I come up with a terrible idea. One that Trips might hate me for. But one that also might keep Jansen alive and out of jail.
“Does your dad have a place nearby to take injured guards?”
“What the fuck, Clara? He’s been shot!”
“I know that!” I scream. “Answer my goddamn question.”
“There’s a medical supply stash I know about that isn’t too far away, but unless you’re secretly a surgeon, we’re going to the fucking hospital.”
I speed through the light he told me to turn at. “Tell me where to go,” I say, as my brain reminds me of the strange weight Falk dropped in my pocket. Sure enough, it’s a phone. I dial a number I’d forced myself to memorize before all this started, leaving streaks of blood on the screen.
“I swear to God, Clara.”
“Trust me. Please. I’m not going to let anything happen to him.” My voice cracks as I plead with the man in the back, and with a shake of his head, he barks out directions.
I put the phone on speaker. With the third ring, I’m ready to give in to the tears that are trying to take over. But a confused “Hello?” stalls my meltdown, and I could cry for an entirely different reason.
