Behind him, Troy stood swaying on his feet. One hand braced against the wall for support. The other holding the gun he'd somehow grabbed from one of the dead guards outside.
“Told you,” Troy said. His voice was rough and broken and beautiful. “He'd fucking kill you.”
Rafael turned. Tried to say something. Maybe a threat. Maybe a final piece of ideology he needed to share before the end.
Troy shot him again. This time in the head.
Rafael dropped like a puppet with cut strings. Hit the floor and didn't move again.
For one impossible second, nobody moved. We all just stood there in the ringing silence while the smoke curled from the barrel of Troy's gun and the blood spread dark across the concrete.
Then Troy's legs gave out.
I caught him before he hit the ground. Pulled him against my chest while his body went limp in my arms. He was cold and shaking and barely conscious, but lucid enough to look up at me with the eyes that held recognition.
“Declan,” he whispered.
“I've got you.” My voice cracked. “I've got you, Troy. You're safe now.”
“Thought you were dead.”
“Takes more than an explosion to kill me.”
He tried to smile. Couldn't quite manage it. “Good.”
Then his eyes closed, and he went completely still.
“Troy?” The panic clawed up my throat. “Troy, stay with me.”
Luka was already moving. Checking for a pulse. Assessing the damage with the practiced efficiency. “He's alive. Pulse is weak but steady. We need to get him to a hospital now.”
Dmitri and Ash moved to help. Between the four of us we got the chains off Troy and carried him out of that basement hell. Back through the warehouse we'd turned into a warzone. Bodies littered the path we'd taken. Bullet holes scarred every surface. The whole building smelled like death and cordite.
We loaded Troy into the SUV. I held him in the backseat while Dmitri drove at speeds that should have gotten us arrested. Luka made calls to the contacts who could get us into a hospital without questions. Ash applied pressure to the wounds that kept bleeding despite our best efforts.
Troy stayed unconscious through all of it.
I kept one hand on his chest. Felt the rise and fall of his breathing. Counted each breath like a prayer.
We'd gotten him back. Rafael was dead. The nightmare was over.
But looking at Troy's pale face, at the bruises covering his body, at the way he didn't wake even when we hit the potholes hard enough to jar the whole vehicle, I understood that we'd almost lost him.
That we'd come so close to a world where I never got to tell him properly that he'd never been a burden. Never been a mistake. That loving him was the only thing I'd done right in years.
“Stay with me,” I whispered against his hair. “Please, Troy. Just stay with me.”
Outside the window, Chicago blurred past in streaks of light and shadow.
And I held onto him like letting go would kill us both.
TWENTY-SEVEN
STAY WITH ME
TROY
Pain dragged me back to consciousness in slow increments.
