53
Luna
The world narrows to a single point: Cade on his knees, eyes unwaveringly trained on Scar, his blood seeping onto the floor as strength leaches out of him.
Everything else pales in comparison—the kitchen, Scar’s presence behind me, even my own thundering heartbeat.
I swallow against the cold bite of steel at my throat, feeling another trickle where it breaks my skin. Tears of rage and desperation burn my eyes. Every instinct screams to fight Scar—to dig my elbow into his ribs, to stomp his feet, to claw his eyes. But the blade against my pulse makes even breathing dangerous.
Scar breathes against my neck. “See the way he’s looking at me? He’s talking to me. That’s how deep our connection goes. I know what he’s saying without words. Can you beat that?”
“No,” I say quickly. “I can’t. Never.”
“Good. He wants to see you before he dies. So, ask me nicely, and maybe I’ll let you go to him.”
“ Please, Scar,” I whimper without hesitation. “Please let me go. Please.”
Scar’s voice drips venom into my ear. “You beg so fucking good, Luciana. We’ll see how you’ll thank me later.”
“What?” My stomach drops.
“Oh, I think you know exactly what I’m talking about, princess.”
Unfortunately, I do. Bile rushes up my throat but I swallow my revulsion and eagerly nod. Nothing beats going to Cade in this moment. “Yes, yes, Scar, I’ll do anything you want.”
I look at Cade, who hasn’t stopped staring at Scar.
Suddenly, I’m shoved forward, and then I’m stumbling toward Cade. His labored breathing makes my chest tighten as I drop to my knees before him, hands roaming over him.
“Oh God, baby, stay with me. I’ll—I’ll get you help—”
“Word of caution.” Scar’s words freeze me. “Don’t even think about doing anything stupid like trying to pull out the knife. He’ll only die faster—the blade’s lodged in his spleen.”
I whirl back on Scar as hot, scalding hate fills me, bleeding through my eyes. Cade lifts a trembling hand to cup my jaw, turning my attention back on him. His thumb swipes at the rivulets of tears running down my face.
“. . . hate it when you cry. ?a me donne envie de tuer quelqu’un.”
Makes me want to kill someone.
Is he delirious? I don’t even think Cade realizes he’s not speaking English.
“Don’t talk, Cade, please. Just breathe.”
The wound on his side is bleeding badly despite the knife still lodged in it. I need to staunch the wound. Without thinking, I yank off his shirt—my only covering—and press it to his side, modesty forgotten. The fabric soaks through in seconds .
“Si tu veux vivre, ouvre la porte,” Cade whispers.
Open the door if you want to live.
What’s he talking about? I press harder on the wound, my mind racing.
He collapses to the floor and takes me with him.
“Cade! Stay with me,” I cry.
“La porte, Luciana.” The words come through gritted teeth. “ Ouvre-la, juste.”
Just open the door.
Why? My eyes dart to the kitchen door, then to Scar looming behind me. Even if I could get to my feet without being caught, where would I run to? I’m buck naked—
“Trust me, Luciana.” It comes out soft but edged with that unmistakable bite of authority. He might as well have roared it for the effect it has on me because I stop thinking and explode from the floor, almost slipping in the widening pool of blood.
My bare feet find purchase, slapping on tile as I sprint for the door, heart thundering.
Just to get the door. Just get to the door. Just—
White hot pain shoots through my scalp as Scar yanks me back, his fist tangling in my hair.
“Where do you think you’re running off to, princess?”
“Please,” I gasp. My feet barely touch the floor, but I keep inching forward, desperately reaching for the door knob. “I’m going to be sick—”
“Liar. Such a fucking liar.”
“Scar, please! I just need—” My fingers brush the brushed steel knob, but Scar hauls me back before I can get a firm grip.
“Need what? To scream for help? No one’s coming for you. You’re going to stay here and console me. Over and over again until your heart gives out. Or I stop hurting—whichever comes first.”
I s ob as his arm bands around my naked torso, his hand slowly creeping over my skin. The coarse drag of his ruined fingertips is a chilling reminder of the anomaly he is.
Revulsion flares hot and fierce, fueling the strength I need to stretch for the last inch.
My shoulder feels like it’s popping from the strain, but I block out the pain as my hand closes around the door knob. I twist it just as Scar yanks me backward, and the motion flings the door wide open.
What happens next unfolds in slow motion.
A crouching shadow. Red eyes. Then a huge blur of black muscle launches through the doorway.
Saint moves like a demon unleashed, and I find myself crashing forward into the doorframe as Scar’s grip suddenly vanishes.
The scream that follows doesn’t sound human. It cuts off in a wet gurgle that turns my blood to ice. I slide down the doorframe, shuddering, hands clapping over my ears because I already know what’s happening behind me.
Still, I can’t make myself not look back.
Scar is on the floor. Saint’s massive jaws are locked around his throat like a steel trap as the dog shakes his head from side to side, powerful muscles rippling under black fur. Blood arcs in a crimson spray, misting my skin. Scar’s legs kick out twice, then still.
It’s over in seconds. Saint releases his grip and backs away, sides heaving, muzzle dripping red. He settles on his belly, paws outstretched on Cade’s leg, eyes fixed on Cade with terrible devotion while emitting a soft whine like a puppy.
I’m still frozen in horror, my mouth open in a soundless scream, eyes bugged out as my brain struggles to process what just happened.
“Luciana.” Cade’s pained groan snaps me back to reality.
I s cramble over to Cade, my entire body shaking violently. I can’t even look at Saint or the mangled mess that Scar is. If I do, I’ll lose my shit and run out into the street naked and screaming.
“He-He—Saint. He’s killed . . .” I swallow hard. “Scar’s d-dead.”
“I know.” Cade’s voice comes weak, but there’s something in it—pride maybe, or relief. Even dying, he’s trying to steady me.
Cade’s last command echoes in my head. Derek is your father now, St. Michael. Was that some kind of code to kill Scar? How many other codes does the dog know?
“Quick.” Cade gasps, snapping me out of my spiral. “Phone . . . back pocket . . . triple 4 . . . triple 8.” Each word is punctuated with a shallow breath.
I reach around him for the phone, hands slick with blood and shaking so bad the fingerprint reader keeps rejecting me. I wipe my hands on my thigh and try again. And again. The third time, it finally unlocks.
As I go to type in the numbers, the phone vibrates with an incoming call from an unknown caller.
“Hello!” I shout.
No response.
“Hello! Cade’s hurt! Please can you send help—”
The line disconnects.
Shit
“The code, Luc-ciana,” Cade whispers.
Shit, I almost forgot. I tap in the numbers and hold my breath.
Nothing happens. Not a fucking thing. Instead, the screen goes black.
Oh God. No! I try to wake up the screen, or even restart the phone. Nothin g.
“The battery died! Cade!”
His eyes are closed now.
“Cade, please, don’t do this!”
With a sob, I throw the phone on the floor and fumble for my own to dial 911.
“911, what’s your emergency?” The operator’s impersonal voice buzzes in my ear.
“M-My boyfriend . . .” I stammer, the word woefully inadequate for what he is. “He’s been stabbed, bleeding badly. We’re in San Diego, Cypress Ridge Drive. We need an ambulance now!”
“Ma’am, can you give me a house number or a landmark?”
I don’t know the house number. My voice rises, frantic. “It’s a mansion! It’s on a hill! There are palm trees . . . Can’t you track this phone!” My voice cracks. “Please just get here! He doesn’t have much time!”
I think the operator says help is on the way, but everything is starting to sound like I’m underwater. My mind blurs with panic and exhaustion. I glance around the room. Pristine walls now spattered with blood. Scar’s lifeless body on the floor. Saint lying down, still whining.
And Cade—eyes shut, chest barely moving.
I bend over him, tears streaming as I clutch his hand as tightly as I can. “Baby, I’ll marry you, I swear. We’ll make it work. Just don’t leave me. I can’t lose you . . .”
Cade’s eyes flutter open, and I can barely make out his faint, broken whisper. “You’re . . . going to be fine . . .”
“No, I’m not!” I choke out, clutching his hand tighter. “Not without you. Please, Cade, promise me you’ll hold on . . . for me. I love you.”
Suddenly, his phone flashes to life a few feet away. My jaw drops when I hear a cold, clipped voice through its speaker.
“Confirm emergency, Quinn? ”
What?
I dive for the phone and press it to my ear, even though the speaker is somehow already activated. “Please!” I scream. “He’s been stabbed! We’re on Cypress—”
“I know where you are. ETA three minutes,” the voice barks before the line abruptly cuts off.
Three minutes. It seems impossibly long, but God, it’s all we’ve got. Whoever this person is, they’re our best chance.
The 911 operator is still droning on, asking me to do CPR or apply more pressure to the wounds, but I can barely focus. My trembling hand presses the blood-soaked shirt harder against Cade’s side. His breaths are shallow and wrong, his skin growing colder under my touch.
“Stay with me. Please stay with me.” The words spill out of me like a mantra, a prayer, my tears falling like rain. “Help is coming. Just hold on.”
Seconds stretch on like hours, until Saint suddenly lifts his head, ears pricking. Heart pounding anew, I scan the room and strain to listen for any sound—help or danger.
Nothing.
And then—
A deafening crash shatters the silence as the front door bursts open.
In seconds, two men dressed in black tactical gear storm into the kitchen, weapons raised as they take in the carnage.
“Clear!” one of them barks, and more flood in behind him, moving with terrifying efficiency.
They’re on us in moments, poking, prodding . . . and cursing.
“Pulse barely there. BP in the sink—”
“Two IOs, stat. Push Ringer’s. Six units of O-neg—”
“OR better be standing the fuck by, and I want vasc and trauma ready to roll!”
A h and lands on my shoulder, warm but firm. “Ma’am, we’ll need you to move.”
“No!” I clutch Cade tighter, my voice cracking. “I can’t leave him— ”
“Luna.” The man’s voice softens. “Let us help him.”
They know my name?
Gentle hands pry me away as the team surrounds Cade. Someone drapes a blanket over my shoulders, but I barely feel it. My eyes remain locked on Cade as they work to stabilize him.
“That’s a nasty cut, ma’am.” Someone gestures to my arm. I glance down, surprised to see blood running from shoulder to elbow. When did that happen?
The room tilts. Everything narrows, tunnels.
I try to follow as they lift Cade onto the stretcher, but my legs won’t cooperate. Everything is suddenly too bright, too sharp. The emerald on my finger catches the light—a flicker of green fire that burns like his eyes, like the future draining away with every second.
Don’t leave me, Cade. We haven’t even started.
The world tips. Someone shouts.
Then nothing but darkness.