His weight presses onto my shoulder, but his limp gives away how much he’s still supporting himself. It’s not until the bedroom door closes behind us that I realize what Easton just did for me. Honest, law-abiding Easton. Alejandro wasn’t shy about wanting to punish Paul on his own terms, and yet, Easton walked away. I tilt my head and stare up at him, at my Easton. His hair is wild, knuckles cracked and bloody, skin ghostly. His expression is stoic and unreadable as he looks straight ahead, determined to get me out of here. An ache I’ve never known creeps its way into my heart, and I lean into him.
Sunlight beams down on my face as we step outside. A man stands outside the door, his back against the wall, arms folded, eyes hard. He looks at me, at Easton, and then he tips his chin in acknowledgment. I know he’s here with my cousin.
“Hey,” I say to him. “Get him out of here in time, okay? Promise me. Promise me you won’t let him get caught because of me.”
The man nods, firmly this time, and I thank him before continuing toward the concrete staircase. Easton guides us down the stairs at his own pace, slow and steady. On the last step, he stumbles, and I barely catch him in time before we both lose balance.
“You’re okay,” I whisper, but my voice cracks when I see how bad he looks under the sunlight. “You’re going to be fine,” I reassure us both.
“Eva.” He winces, leaning on me more than before as we step onto the sidewalk. He pauses, and his gaze, laced with a dark and serious edge, meets mine. “I’m sorry,” he says. I don’t know how his voice can sound so rough yet so tender. “I’m so fucking sorry. He never should have found you. I promised you were safe. I promised you’d be okay—”
“Shhh. S-stop.” I look away because I don’t understand the emotions tightening my throat. No one has ever said words like that to me. I never thought anyone would. “Anyway, I’ll be fine.”
He nods, adjusts his weight, lightly touches my chin with his knuckles. The gentle contact spreads liquid heat through me. When he lifts my face so I have to look at him, I can’t stop more tears from spilling over.
“I swear ...” His Adam’s apple moves up and down. “I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.” He says it quietly, softly, but the unmistakable fire behind each word sends a warm shiver through me.
I believe him.
“You’ll be fine too,” I whisper.
“Of course, I will.” It’s a raspy grunt paired with a grimace as he wavers, leaning on me more than before as we move closer to the curb. “I’ve got a promise to keep.”
“Easton, I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
I look up at him, and although the seriousness in his gaze is piercing, his lips kick up on one side. Then, he teeters too far to the right, and I carefully lower us to sit on the curb. It’s not easy with over six feet of football player weighing me down, but I manage, and we both breathe heavily while the sirens finally hit our ears. Easton’s arm curls around me. Despite his pain, he holds me tightly, like someone might steal me away at any moment. He rests his head on mine, and after a moment, his breathing starts to slow.
Eventually, bright red and blue lights flicker into view.
“Easton,” I whisper.
He doesn’t respond.
“Easton, look.”
When he still doesn’t respond, dread turns me cold. “Easton.” I give him a little shake. “Easton!”
His tired, heavy-lidded gaze finds mine, and he gives me a crooked, knowing smile. “I like when you worry about me,” he rasps. “You should do it more often.”
“Oh my god.” I punch him in the shoulder. He winces, his eyes shutting in pain, and guilt splits me in half. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Are you hurt there?”
He lazily peeks one eye open at me, lips tipping up. “Seriously,” he drawls, his eyes falling shut again. “I could get used to this.”
“Unbelievable.” Two police vehicles pull up, then two more, followed by an ambulance. My eyes narrow as a car with an FBI van pulls up behind them. “There are so many,” I muse, confused.
Easton releases a breath, then clutches his ribs. “Yeah,” he says gravelly, “I think ... fuck.” He tips his head upward and tries another exhale, but instead, his eyes roll back into his head.
“Easton?”
His body goes limp, and the dread I felt a few seconds ago pummels back with a vengeance.
“Easton!” I place my palms on his cheeks, turning his head toward me, but his eyes won’t open. He shudders slightly in my grasp, and then he just ... stills.
My breath quickens. I shake him, but he doesn’t move. “Easton!” This isn’t happening. Trembling, I carefully pull his T-shirt off him, then fold it in half and put pressure on the wound at his back. My stomach sways, vision blurring, and I try to ignore the blood running over my fingers. So much blood ...
I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know how to fix him. I wrap my arms around him and squeeze gently.
