"Because you were leaving." His voice comes out strained. "And I needed you to come back."
I stare at him, tears streaming down my face, completely unable to comprehend the man in front of me. He shot himself. Twice. Just to make me turn around. Just to keep me from walking away.
"You're a mad man," I whisper.
"I know baby." He reaches up with a bloody hand and touches my cheek, leaving a red smear across my skin. "But this? This is nothing, Iris. This pain right here is nothing compared to watching you leave me. I would put a bullet through every part of my body if it meant you'd stay."
"Stop talking, you manipulative sadistic bastard." I'm sob, pressing harder against his wounds. "Just stop. You need to save your strength. Where are your men? Where the hell are they?"
As if on cue, footsteps pound into the alley. His guards appear with their guns drawn, ready for a fight, and then they see us. They see their boss on his knees, bleeding out, and me crying over him with blood all over my hands. Their faces go white.
"Hospital," I choke out. "Get him to a hospital. Right now. He shot himself on both shoulders. I don't know how bad it is. But let’s Go!" They move fast, holstering their weapons and lifting him carefully between them. One of them is already on the phone, barking orders. Ilay doesn't fight them. He just keeps his eyes locked on me, reaching for my hand as they carry him away.
"I'm sorry," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm so sorry. Please don't leave. I'm sorry. Please. I'll do anything. Just don't leave me, I'll listen to you."
I follow them out of the alley, my hands covered in his blood. I press my palms against his chest as they load him into the car, trying to keep pressure on the wounds, trying to do anything useful even though I feel completely helpless. "
Stop apologizing and stay awake," I tell him, my voice cracking. "You hear me? Stay awake. Don't you dare close your eyes."
He looks up at me from the backseat barely conscious, and smiles. "You came back," he murmurs. "I knew you would."
And I hate him for it. I hate him for being right. I hate him for knowing exactly what buttons to push, for being so broken and so obsessive that he'd put bullets in his own body just to keep me close. But I hate myself more. Because even now, even after everything, I'm not letting go of his hand.
Chapter 15
?
ILAY
She sits in the back seat with me, placing a trembling hand down on the wound to stop the bleeding. To be honest I don't even feel the pain, but I want her to feel bad for me. So I do what every insane person would do to get the attention of the woman he's obsessed with, I fake it. Letting out a low, pathetic groan to sell the illusion.
"Argh..."
Her hand slips from my shoulder to my cheek, Trying to comfort me. I don't even register the pain when her fingers touch my skin. "I don't... I don't feel so good," I whisper, letting my voice shake just a little.
"Don't die on me. Please." Her voice cracks, soaked in fear, and that's all I need. Her care. Her panic. Her desperation.
I make my body shudder lightly, as if I'm slipping away. When I whisper an apology and catch the way her eyes linger on the blood soaking my coat, the faintest curl of satisfaction tugs at the corner of my mouth. I'm not in pain. Not even close. I've survived worse, two bullets in the shoulder are nothing. She's crying and touching my arm. Begging me to stay awake.
I lean into the role, my eyes glassy and unfocused, slacking my body against her like I'm barely hanging on. By the time we reach the mansion, the doctor is already waiting. They haul me upstairs, and I keep the performance going. I groan when they move me. I let them sedate me even though the drug barely skims the edge of my awareness. I've been pumped with worse.
They clean the bullet holes, stitching me up. When the doctor finally leaves, she walks in then sits across from the bed, fixing her gaze on me. I can tell she's upset with me, but because I'm a patient, she keeps it bottled up.
"How do you feel?" I ask, quietly. She doesn't answer. "How do you feel?" I repeat, trying to gauge when I stand with her now.
This time she speaks, and her voice slices straight through me. "How do you expect me to feel?" she snaps. "I would expect you to take responsibility like a normal human being... but instead, you shoot yourself to manipulate me. Because you know I'm a good person, and you're using that against me."
I stay silent, letting her fury wash over me. It's raw. It's honest. It's beautiful.
"I just wanted to feel what you felt," I say. "By shooting yourself?" she fires back. "You think that's pain? The pain I want you to feel is emotional. I want you to understand."
Her voice shakes. "You're not emotionally intelligent. Maybe it's the mafia in you. But you don't get to shoot my friend just because he touched me."
"That's exactly why I shot him," I say, calm and unbothered. "Because he touched you."
She stands abruptly. "We're not even getting anywhere with this. You don't see what you did wrong."
"I did nothing wrong," I say slowly. "I have nothing to apologize for. And I would do it again. A thousand more times. If any man touches you, I'll blow his head off."
