“Where’s T, Wyatt?” He doesn’t answer me.
“Wyatt, where the fuck is Thomas?” I growl, thrashing wildly, trying to get free. I pray to whoever might be listening that Thomas isn’t hurt.
“Stop! Stop moving. They’re checking the scene. Once it’s clear, we’ll see where Thomas is,” he says as he tries to settle me.
I hear movement all around as the cold seeps into my now ruined dress. Wyatt’s body provides some warmth but small shivers rack my body. Either from fear or shock, I’m not entirely sure at the moment.
“I wish I could let you off the ground, Love, but it’s just not safe,” Wyatt whispers in my ear. His voice soothing but I’m too worried to feel any semblance of calm. My nerves are frantic and I won’t know peace until I know Thomas is safe.
Voices continue to sound around me. Directives are given to check the scene. Instructions to help whoever’s been shot. It feels like hours have passed before I hear, “Clear.”
As soon as Wyatt begins lifting off me, I shoot up, twisting until I see what I’m looking for.
Someone’s shrill cry sounds like cats whining. It’s then I register that the person making the noise is me. On the ground, not five feet in front of me is Thomas, his form too still.
“No, no, no, no,” I kick off my heels and run, kneeling once I reach him and check for a pulse. I feel nothing.
“No, this can’t be happening,” I mutter.
Refusing to believe he’s dead, I check again, holding my own breath. Then I feel it, a faint beat tethering him to this world.
“He’s alive. Someone do something,” I command.
I hear the shuffling of feet. I don’t feel like they’re moving fast enough.
My nerves fraying, I yell, “Hurry the fuck up!”
Wyatt picks me up off the ground, and I fight before breaking down in his arms.
Another voice comes through the radio speaker, “Whoever it was is long gone. They took the shell casing.” I hear the tail end of the conversation. I’m not sure how they knew where to look and why they thought to even look at all.
Whoever the fuck this was is going to pay. They better be happy they got away. If he doesn’t make it through this…No, he has to make it through this.
“He’s got to be okay. He has to Wyatt,” I state with finality that dares fate to challenge me.
Thomas became more than a guard. He became family, a father-like figure when mine has been gone. So, he’s not allowed to leave me. I refuse to lose another person.
I look over as they work to stop the bleeding. He was hit in the lower stomach and looks deathly pale. The bronze set to his skin is almost ashy.
As if he can hear me, I shout, “Fight. You hear me, Thomas. You better fucking fight.”
43
OWEN
Iwalk into the hospital room, and Ariah is in the same spot she’s been in for two days, only leaving to check on her sister and brothers. She hasn’t gone to school, isn’t eating, and is barely sleeping. I’ve given her time, but she will need to come out of her shell.
Thomas was touch and go for the first few hours. They operated, repairing the damage and retrieving the bullet. By the time we got to the hospital, Thomas had lost so much blood he also needed a transfusion. Now, he just needs to wake up. The doctors expect a full recovery but there’s no reasoning with Ariah. Until his eyes open she won’t move.
As I observe her I reanalyze the events as they took place. Thomas had a bulletproof vest on, but it’s like the shooter aimed for a spot underneath the vest. The precision required for that shot meant it had to be a sniper, and Thomas, not Ariah, had to be the target. But why would they aim for him instead of her?
I pause my analysis and walk to her side. She doesn’t acknowledge my presence, refusing to be distracted from her watch like the slightest distraction could make her miss something. She doesn’t even flinch when I lift her from her chair and sit her on my lap.
Brushing the thick strands of her blue hair to one side, I lay a kiss on the back of her neck and whisper, “Angel, we need to get you cleaned up and fed.”
She doesn’t respond, and before I coax her into saying something, she sucks in a lung full of air like she’s surfacing from being drowned.
“He moved. He moved,” she mumbles on repeat.
