Chapter 7 #2
He'd taken every shot meant for me. Thrown himself between me and the guards without hesitation. Used his body as a shield even as the bolts tore through him. He'd protected me.
And it was killing him.
"I'm so sorry," I whispered, my vision blurring. "I'm so sorry. This is my fault. All of this is my fault."
If I hadn't come for him. If I'd just left him in that cell.
No.
He would have died there anyway. Slowly. Alone in the dark. At least this way he'd seen the sky. Felt the wind. Tasted freedom, even if only for a moment. But that thought didn't comfort me. It just made my heart break harder.
The ship lurched as Binwee engaged the engines.
We were lifting off, the ground falling away beneath us.
"Enslak." I said again, my voice breaking. "Please. You can't—"
My hands patted his face, trying to keep him conscious.
His hand moved, slow and trembling, rising toward my face.
"Niki," I whispered, suddenly needing him to know. "My name is Niki."
My whole body was shaking now, tremors I couldn't control running through my arms and legs.
The adrenaline crash hit hard enough that my teeth chattered.
The detective part of my brain, the part that had kept me alive through fifteen years on the force, was screaming at me to do something, to apply pressure to the wounds, to elevate his legs, to check for exit wounds, to run through the trauma protocol I'd learned at the academy.
But my hands wouldn't move. Couldn't move.
Because I knew, with the cold, clinical certainty of someone who'd seen too many bodies, that there was nothing I could do. The wounds were too severe, the blood loss too catastrophic. This wasn't a gunshot victim I could stabilize until the ambulance arrived. This was—
No. Don't think it. Don't.
I went very still as his fingers touched my cheek, my breath catching.
The cuddwisg was still active, still projecting Zarlak's face over mine.
But his eyes, those gold eyes, looked at me with perfect clarity.
He saw me.
Not the disguise. Not the hologram.
Me.
A memory hit me like a physical blow: his hand closing around mine in that filthy cell, so gentle despite the claws, despite everything they'd done to him.
The way he'd looked at me when I'd removed the collar, like I was something precious.
The careful tenderness when he'd carried me through the sewers, keeping me safe from the filth even though he was bleeding and broken.
My throat closed up completely.
His fingers traced my cheekbone with impossible gentleness.
The same tenderness he'd shown in his cell.
The same way he'd held me in the sewers.
The same gentleness even as he'd thrown himself between me and the guards, even as their bolts tore through him again and again, even as he'd used his body as a shield, taking every shot meant for me.
"Safe," he whispered.
The word came out rough, barely audible, wet with blood. But unmistakable.
The sound of it broke something in me. My vision tunneled, edges going dark and fuzzy, and I realized distantly that I was hyperventilating.
My chest heaved with shallow gasps that weren't getting any oxygen to my brain.
The ship's deck felt like it was tilting beneath me even though I knew we were stable, and my hands, God, my hands were covered in his blood.
So much blood, dark and sticky and still warm.
This is shock, the detective part of my brain observed clinically. You're going into shock. Breathe. Count. Ground yourself.
But I couldn't. Couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but stare at his face and feel the weight of every decision that had led us here crushing down on me.
I should have planned better. Should have anticipated the ambush. Should have had a backup route, a contingency, something. Fifteen years as a cop and I'd walked us straight into a trap like a rookie on her first day.
If I'd been faster removing the collar. If I'd checked the perimeter more carefully. If I'd insisted we wait for better cover before making our run.
If, if, if.
"I'm here," I said, pressing his hand against my face with both of mine. My voice came out strangled and thick. "I'm right here. I'm safe. You kept me safe."
Something hot slid down my cheek, then another.
My grandmother's voice echoed in my head. Gaman, Nikki-chan. Endure with dignity. But there was no dignity in this, no quiet strength. Just raw, tearing grief that felt like it was ripping me apart from the inside.
I didn't cry easily. After Danny died, I could count on one hand the times I'd broken down and sobbed. I'd learned to compartmentalize, to lock the emotions away in a box and deal with them later, to stay functional when everything was falling apart.
But here, now, with Enslak's blood soaking into my clothes and his massive hand trembling against my face, with the coppery smell of it filling my nose and the warmth of it seeping through the fabric to my skin.
The tears came anyway.
This male, this broken, suffering male who'd been tortured and turned into a weapon, had thrown himself between me and death without hesitation.
Had taken bolt after bolt, his body jerking with each impact, smoke rising from his flesh.
Had kept fighting even as blood poured from his wounds, even as his strength failed.
For me. For a stranger who'd walked into his cell wearing a monster's face.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, the words thick in my throat and barely coherent through the tears. "I'm so sorry. You shouldn't have. You didn't have to."
But he had.
And now he was dying because of it.