The blood has soaked through the small hankie I have at my disposal. Pixie sinks beside me, fresh bar towels in her shaking hands, her blue eyes wild as she offers them to me.
Nodding, I take them and cover Wren’s wound, pressing down again to her whimper.
A bone snaps and another man screams in Saint’s grip. Fighting breaks out around me, but I can’t see anything other than how pale Wren has gotten, how bright the blood is as it spreads, how she’s barely breathing.
Her eyes flutter.
“Little bird, you have to stay with me.” I demand it, pressing a little harder to stem the flow of blood. It just keeps coming. This time her cry is more of a moan.
“You can’t close your eyes on me, Wren. Open. Keep them open.”
But she’s not. Her flashes flutter again, but her eyes don’t open again.Fuck. Echoes reach me as I track every small inhale and exhale.
Another body drops nearby, but I can’t tear myself away from her.
Knox’s scream clears the ringing in my ears, a hole in the thigh. Saint hovers over him. “You don’t get to die. Not until you answer for this.”
Then crouching beside me, Saint frowns so deeply, it’s almost rage instead of devastation.
“We’re moving her. Now. She’s still breathing, and she’s still bleeding.” I need her in my office. Where my equipment is. Where I can get that bullet out. Where I can be sure she’s not bleeding internally, that her lung isn’t collapsing, that air isn’t getting into her chest cavity.
Fucking Knox. Bringing goddamn mercenaries in here with Wren, who doesn’t know how to stay out of things. She doesn’t know how to keep herself safe. She shouldn’t have even been in here.
In my office, we lay her out on the table, and I snap at Saint, at Sin, at Pixie. I need a scalpel, grips, gauze, a bright light.
Digging the bullet out doesn’t earn me a noise, but there’s no sucking, no bubbles, as I pry that piece of lead out of her. When it pings into a pan, I’m able to slow her bleeding, but there’s so much more she needs to pull out of this.
Saint hovers on the other side of the table, a reflection of the pain I’m feeling in his gaze. “It’s not supposed to happen like this. She was supposed to bethe one thing untouched by all this filth. And she went and took the bullet meant for me.”
27
SAINT
My wife is so fucking still, laid out on our bed, attached to tubes and machines that we had to go find in order to keep her stable.
I haven’t slept, sitting here, beside the bed we share. My elbows indent my knees as I stare at her. The shoulder bandage peeks out from under the blankets and sheets she’s tucked under.
The firing of that gun is the loudest I’ve ever experienced. Her blood the brightest red I’ve ever seen. And the way she crumpled to the floor. The cry I only heard and didn’t see because I was fighting the urge to kill Knox for bringing those thugs into my club house.
I almost killed him though, my gun aimed right between his eyes as he stared back, hands up. It would have been so easy to pull that trigger. If Wren had died right there, I would have put that bullet in his brain.
The trouble it would have caused wouldn’t compare to the loss of her.
But somehow, she’s still here.
I rub my hands together, still covered in her blood. I can’t leave her long enough to wash it off.
The gun fires inside of my head again. She staggers. Crumbles. So much blood.
Red hot anger and despair twist and tango with every loop. How did I let this happen? How could Sin not ensure she was downstairs, away from this? How could I have? I know what she’s like…
That hits harder than I want it to. She’s the kind of woman who has tough instincts even though she’s been sheltered. She never dealt with men with guns, only the ones who’ve dealt with money. But it’s that money that buys the loyalty of the men we deal with.
I should have prepared her better. Should have given her clearer warnings, stuck to my boundaries, kept her safe.
Fuck, it’s my job to keep her safe. And I failed. Inourown goddamn home, I failed.
Shame burns hard, refueling my anger—my fear. Wren is stable, but she’s not awake yet.
