We are safe.
The realization cuts the last string holding me up.
The adrenaline dumps. It goes all at once, leaving me hollowed out. My knees buckle. I reach for the wall, but my hand slips on the dusty plaster.
I slide down. My back scrapes against the brick. I hit the floor hard, jarring the wound in my side.
A gasp tears out of my throat. I press my hand against my ribs, and the blood squeezes between my fingers—warm, wet, too much of it.
"Killian!"
Alessandro is there. He drops to his knees beside me. His hands—the steady hands, the hands that shook only once tonight—are on me instantly.
"Don't touch it," I rasp.
"Shut up." His voice is shaking. "Let me see."
He pulls my jacket open. He lifts my t-shirt. The fabric peels away from my skin with a sickening, wet sound.
I look down.
It’s a mess. A jagged tear just above my hip bone. The skin is shredded, the flesh dark and angry. Blood is pulsing out sluggishly—dark red, venous. Not arterial. I’m not dead yet.
"Jesus," Alessandro whispers.
He looks at my face. The mask is gone. The Prince is gone. He looks terrified.
"You drove," he says. "You drove all the way here like this."
"Didn't have a choice."
"You always have a choice, you stubborn bastard."
He rips the sleeve off his own t-shirt. He bunches the fabric and presses it against the wound. The pressure is agony. I grit my teeth, a groan escaping through my nose.
"Hold this," he orders. He grabs my hand and forces it onto the compress. "Keep pressure. Do not let go."
He stands up. He scans the room, frantic.
"Is there a kit?"
"Kitchen," I manage. "Cabinet above the sink. Rory restocked it."
He runs. I hear him tearing through the kitchen—cabinet doors banging open, the rattle of supplies.
I lean my head back against the wall. The room is spinning. The shadows are stretching, reaching for me. The cold is seeping into my bones.
I close my eyes.
I see Seamus’s face. I see the red dot on Alessandro’s chest. I see Alessandro in the container, his hand on his zipper, his eyes wild.
He came back for me.
He came out of the dark, out of his own panic, and he got in the car. He fought beside me.
Footsteps return. Alessandro drops to his knees again. He has a white plastic box. He snaps it open. Gauze. Tape. Antiseptic.
"This is going to hurt," he says.
