She pushes a few calming breaths past her lips, then inches away. Her eyes are unfocused like she’s still somewhere else.
I press my forehead to hers, angling myself to shield her from the dead bodies all around.
“You’re okay. You’re safe now.”
The room’s no longer silent, but the gunfire hasn’t recommenced. It’s been replaced by a low hum of groans, boots, and orders. I glance around, watching Blaze’s and Carter’s men hold a few daredevils at gunpoint.
Ryder kneels beside us, scanning the room, gun in hand. “We’re clear. Get her out of here, Koby.” He grasps my shoulder, squeezing twice. “We’ve got it from here.”
I can barely hear him.
My world’s shrunk to Leilani’s heart beating against my ribs and her warm shallow breaths on my neck.
39
Koby
Low wall lights bathe the hotel room in a dim, orange glow. It’s clinically clean... and quiet.
The kind of quiet that lets you hear your own pulse.
And mine’s still on the fast side, even though it’s been an hour since I brought Leilani here. I set her in the bathtub and watched her scrub Anton’s blood off her skin.
She didn’t speak the whole time. She didn’t even react when I asked if she needed help.
Instead of pushing, I took a hot shower, then sat by the tub as she drained it and filled it back up twice before the water stopped turning pink.
I open my suitcase, pull on a pair of sweatpants, then snag one of my t-shirts for Leilani. Her clothes are still at Blaze’s, so she’ll have to make do with mine tonight.
Before returning to the bathroom, I grab a bottle of water from the minibar and twist the cap off.
She’s out of the tub now, drying herself with a white, fluffy towel, wet hair sticking to her shoulders and collarbones.
“Here.” I hand her the t-shirt and the bottle. “Drink.”
She looks up at me, eyes big but unfocused, like she’s looking right through me. Her skin’s pink and there’s still blood under her fingernails.
I lean against the doorframe, still giving her space. It feels fucking wrong, but I don’t know what else to do.
She’s so detached I’m afraid to move.
A car horn bleeds through the window from somewhere outside. It’s Saturday evening. Life outside these walls goes on. People are out, enjoying their night. Drinking. Partying. Laughing.
And we’re caught in the aftermath of our actions.
She drinks a little, sets the bottle aside with trembling hands, then pulls the t-shirt on. Her eyes fall shut as she bunches the fabric with both hands, buries her nose in it, and inhales deeply. Her shoulders relax, a sense of calm washing over her frail frame, and my knees damn near give out.
“I’m okay, Koby,” she rasps, then clears her throat before looking at me. “A little confused, maybe.”
She comes closer, her bare feet padding across the cold tiles. Rising on her tiptoes, she stamps a soft kiss on my jaw and hides her face in the crook of my neck, her hands clamping around my throat. I wrap her in my arms immediately, a huge weight falling off my shoulders.
“Talk to me,” I whisper, sweeping her off her feet. “Please. I don’t know how to help you.”
“I don’t need help.”
Her fingers knot in the hair at the back of my head and she clings to me as I take her to bed. We end up tangled on the sheets, her weight on top of mine, my back against the headboard.
“He looked so surprised,” she whispers, her breath warm in my ear. “When I stabbed him.” She sounds steady, calm, and I’m not sure if that should alarm me or not. “I thought I’d feel guilty. Sad or scared... and I do, but not for the reason I expected.”
