Chapter 14 Killian #2
"Killian." His voice is hard. "I just killed a man and engaged in a high-speed pursuit. I am not staying in the car like a frightened spouse."
I don't have the energy to argue. The blood loss is siphoning the fight out of me.
"Fine," I say. "Keep behind me."
I open the door. I have to grab the frame to pull myself out. My legs feel like they belong to someone else—heavy, unresponsive wood.
We walk to the front door. The weeds are waist-high, soaking my jeans. I fumble with my keyring, finding the brass key that I haven't used in two years. My hands are shaking. It takes me three tries to get it into the lock.
The bolt turns with a heavy clunk.
I push the door open. The air inside is stale, dry, smelling of dust and neglect. I sweep the room with the Glock. Empty.
"Clear," I say.
I close the door behind us. I throw the deadbolt. I slide the heavy steel bar into place.
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.
"Do it."
He pours the antiseptic over the wound.
The pain is white-hot blinding. My back arches off the wall. I bite my tongue to keep from screaming.
Alessandro works fast. He packs the wound with gauze. He tapes it down tight. His hands are covered in my blood.
"It’s not deep," he says, his voice tight. "It hit the oblique muscle, maybe grazed a rib. But you've lost a lot of blood."
He sits back on his heels. He looks at his hands. He looks at me.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he asks.
"Because you would have stopped."
"Yes. I would have stopped to keep you from bleeding out on the upholstery."
"We had to get clear."
"You are an idiot," he says. But there is no heat in it. He reaches out and touches my face. His thumb brushes my cheekbone. His hand is warm. "You are a catastrophic idiot."
I look at him.
He is covered in dirt and blood—mine, the dead man’s. His hair is a mess. His eyes are dark bruises in his pale face.
He has never looked more real.
"Alessandro," I whisper.
"Don't talk. Conserve your energy."
"The container," I say.
He freezes. His hand stills on my face.
"I know," I say.
He stares at me. "You know what?"
"I know what you were doing. I saw the vest."
He pulls his hand back. He looks away, staring at the dusty floor. A flush creeps up his neck, visible even in the dim light.
"I needed..." He stops. He swallows hard. "The adrenaline. I couldn't stop it."
"I know."
I reach out. My hand is heavy, clumsy. I grab his wrist.
"Look at me."
He turns his head. His eyes meet mine. There is shame there, but also defiance.
"I wanted to help you," I say. "When I opened that door... I wanted to finish it for you."
His breath hitches. The pupils of his eyes dilate, swallowing the iris.
"You were busy," he whispers.
"I'm not busy now."
The air in the room changes. The smell of blood and dust fades, replaced by the sharp, electric tension that always seems to spark when we touch.
Alessandro looks at my wound. He looks at my face.
"You're bleeding," he says.
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine."
He leans forward. He rests his forehead against mine. We breathe the same air.
"We are going to find Seamus," he says softly. "We are going to find everyone involved in this. And we are going to burn them down."
"Yeah," I say. "We are."
"But first," he says, pulling back slightly, "you are going to drink water. And you are going to sleep. And if you try to move from this spot, I will shoot you myself."
I almost smile.
"Understood," I say.
He stands up. He walks to the kitchen to get water.
I watch him go.
The pain in my side is a dull throb now. The cold is receding.
I am lying on the floor of a dusty, abandoned house with a bullet wound in my side and a war waiting outside the door.
But I am not alone.
For the first time in my life, I am not fighting alone.
And that is worth bleeding for.