Page 53 of Prince of Wrath

I am right here.

I wish I could tell him, but my body is betraying me, and pain widens inside me like quicksand. I part my lips, determined to say his name if nothing else, but agony tears across my throat so fiercely that all I manage is a broken breath, ragged and pitiful.

“Sweetheart…” His forehead falls against mine. Strong hands appear between us, asking him to move, insisting they need room, but he does not seem to understand them. His entire world has narrowed to the space occupied by my body on the cold ground. And just like that, he’s gone. Separated from me, held back as we both try to reunite with our second half. I watch the argument happen through blurred vision, strangers trying to pull him backward while he resists with desperation, calling my name again and again. A silhouette that looks like Nate grips him by the shoulders.

Even then, Tristan’s fingers refuse to leave mine. He holds on to the last tips of my digits, as if he will fall off a cliff if he lets go. I blink. Then he is not there anymore. Tears blur my vision as several people kneel around me, attaching something to my finger, pressing gauze to my neck, shining a flashlight into my eyes. Voices talk to me, asking me to blink once, then twice.

She’s conscious.

No second to waste.

We’re moving.

A shift moves through the air, and suddenly every dream, every hope, every fragile piece of love inside me is sucked backward by a foreign force as a voice emerges from the darkness. Terrifyingly familiar. A voice that has wounded me for years.

“She’s my daughter! Let me see her. I need to know if she’s alive!”

Mara.

My eyes open wide, adrenaline kicking in. I wasn’t there, but I’m here now. Lying on the ground, my dress stretches around me like an ocean of silk and bloodied pearls. Tristan is standing a few feet away, held back by Nate and another officer. Around us, nearly a dozen men lie in various ruined positions, bleeding heavily, some moving, some not moving at all. To my left, Cole is barely breathing, one hand near his chest, blood pooling beneath him with every weak attempt his lungs make to work.

Medical teams hurry through the staff entrance while officers strip away their disguises and check bodies, calling for ambulances. Brenton and Garron stand over Cole, guns aimed at him.

And to my right, emerging from the mansion in a pristine Italian gown, royal and monstrous, Mara comes straight for me. An officer holds her back with one arm, but she is fighting him well enough that his grip keeps slipping. She towers over me while two paramedics kneel by my sides, checking me, pressing bandages somewhere near the side of my throat. I still do not understand where the pain begins.

Everywhere, I want to tell them.

It hurts everywhere.

Inside and out.

“She’s my daughter,” Mara repeats. Our eyes lock. Pawn against queen. That is all I can think of. Pawn against queen. She lunges toward me and I am not even surprised. If Mara cares about anything, it is appearances. Her loyalties change as quickly as the wind, and I know exactly how she thinks, if I make a scene, no one will connect me to the Vodianovs. My hands will stay clean.

“Back the fuck away,” Tristan shouts. His body blocks mine before she can come any closer.

“I’m her stepmother,” Mara barks, sounding offended. “I have a right to be there.” The paramedic on my left leans closer, a stethoscope hanging around his neck.

“Ms Brooks, we cleaned away enough blood to see the wound. The bullet only grazed the side of your neck. It clipped a superficial vein, which is why there’s so much bleeding, but there’s no major arterial damage. Can you hear me?”

I blink once.

“Yes, good. Stay with us, we’re getting you to the hospital.”

“Brenton!” Tristan calls. Brenton moves toward Mara while another officer presses a firm hand to her back, ordering her to wait.

Tristan drops beside me again, next to one of the paramedics. “Ella, I’m here. I’m right here. I thought…” His voice breaks. “I thought I had shot you, sweetheart. I never meant–he was about to hurt you, and I couldn’t stand there and do nothing and-” My hand twitches, fingers curling weakly into a fist.

“Sign,” I sign.

Weakly, but still. Something dark and eclipsed passes through his eyes, and his jaw flexes as if he is finally waking from a nightmare he thought would never end.

“I love you,” he signs, folding his middle and ring fingers into his palm, leaving his thumb, index finger, and pinky raised.

“I love you too,” I sign back, mirroring the gesture.

Voices and commands fill the background, but for a moment, none of them matter. We are speaking in the only language that could sew us back together.

“Do you want me to make her go away?” he signs.