Chapter 8 - Anya
My heart is beating so fast it feels as though it’s going to burst straight out of my rib cage. It’s so loud I keep confusing the drumming in my ears and the gunshots snapping around me.
My head is flooded with thoughts. Run. Stay. Hide. Help people.
Emmanuil has me pushed behind him, both of us pressed against a pillar in the middle of the walkway.
My heart is breaking to see the people around us, cowering, crying, screaming, huddling, and trying to cover their heads with their arms and hands.
A mother has her body thrown over her toddler, and I can’t bear to see them hurt. I have to stop this.
Am I the reason we’re being shot at? Was Emmanuil right? I can’t be the reason someone gets killed at the mall. I can’t live with myself if that happens.
I have to lure these attackers away.
I push away from the pillar, but just as I’m about to make a sprint for the door, hoping to draw the attention of the other gunmen away from the civilians, Emmanuil grabs my arm and drags me back to his side.
“Don’t be stupid,” he shouts.
“I don’t want anyone else hurt,” I shout back. A bullet smacks into the side of the pillar, spraying shards of marble into the air, tiny splinters of it stinging against my cheek. Emmanuil moves quickly to cover my face with his arm.
“Just do as I say. Stay close,” he demands.
I press closer to him, his scent washing over me. He feels safe amidst the chaos. It feels like he would protect me from anything, like he never stopped loving me, like he would make sure nothing bad ever happened to me.
But that’s all in my head. He’s just doing what he has to do to keep us both safe. This isn’t about love.
I’ve never been shot at before. I’ve never been in danger like this before.
It’s terrifying—and thrilling.
My anxiety is bubbling over, but I can’t help being caught up in the excitement of it. Is it wrong to feel that way?
I probably wouldn’t if I were here alone. Emmanuil is so capable, so in control. When I glance up at him, and for a second, our eyes lock, he looks calm.
“One is dead. Two of them are going to need to change clips soon. That leaves one man actively shooting—that’s when we run,” he says.
I nod. “I’ll do whatever you say,” I answer quickly.
He rolls his eyes. And even in this tense situation, I can’t help but grin.
Another bullet smacks into the tiled floor at my feet. I jump in fright.
This is the reason Kristopher kept me under tight supervision at home in Phoenix.
This is the reason I was never allowed to go to the malls in our own city, and whenever I went on vacation, it had to be far away, where no one would ever know who I was.
I understood why he kept me under lock and key, but it always drove me crazy.
It seemed excessive and unnecessary. I guess it wasn’t.
Right now, for some reason, huddled behind a pillar in the middle of a gun battle, I feel freer than I’ve ever felt in my entire life.
Stuck in the middle of a moment I’ve spent my entire life being protected from—I feel alive.
“Now,” Emmanuil shouts, grabbing my arm and pulling me with him.
He makes sure to keep his body between mine and the gunmen, shielding me as he shoots towards them, providing us the cover fire we need to make it to the next pillar, then the next, and finally out into the parking area.
He doesn’t let me stop running. He has me half lifted off the ground, practically carrying me towards the car. He runs much faster than me.
Emmanuil shoves me in and climbs in after me, not wasting a single moment before he’s tail-spinning out of the parking area and into the road.
My adrenaline is racing.
My eyes are locked on the road behind us.
“They’re not following,” he says, out of breath, his jaw set firmly. Tires screech against tar.
I bite my lower lip, pressing my hand over my heart to try and soothe it.
“That was…” I pause, searching for the right word, not wanting to sound like I might have enjoyed it. “That was intense,” I say, finally.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, glancing at me.
His brows shoot up in horror, and I scrunch my nose, confused. “What?”
“You’re bleeding, Anya,” he says, tension flooding his voice.
I look down at my body, and while I couldn’t feel a thing before, as soon as I see the blood soaking over my thigh, I also feel the pain. It stabs through my leg like a knife. My thigh begins to throb. I wish he hadn’t noticed it. That would have been easier.
“Oh,” I whimper, touching my hand against my jeans and lifting my fingers away, sticky and red. “Oh,” I say again, feeling dizzy and overwhelmed.
Without pulling over, Emmanuil wraps his broad hand around my leg, rubbing his hand over it. “It looks like the bullet skimmed past you, not through you, but there’s no way to know how deep it cut.”
“A graze?” I whisper, relieved. “It’s just a graze?” My voice is tight, hopeful. I can feel the blood draining from my face.
“It looks like it.” He glances into my eyes. “Hey, you’re going to be okay, I promise you,” he says gently. “Press your hands against it. It will slow the bleeding. We’re almost home.”
Emmanuil falls quiet as he speeds around corners, racing towards the mansion. His focus is entirely on getting us home.
I’m scared.
More scared of what’s going to happen at home than the fact that I got shot. It hurts, but I think that facing Emmanuil’s angry I told you so while he blames me for all of this is going to be worse.
I keep glancing nervously at him, trying to read his expression. But his face is set like stone, rigid with focus, his hands gripped tight around the steering wheel, and his jaw clenched.
This is going to be a lecture worse than anything I ever got from my brother. Emmanuil was already angry with me—it’s bound to be a hundred times worse now. We turn into the security gates of his mansion, and I start biting my lower lip, squirming with anxiety.
“Does it hurt?” he asks, looking at me.
“Mm.” I nod tightly.
He climbs out of the car. I push the passenger door open, and he’s already standing there.
He doesn’t say a word. He just leans into the car and lifts me, cradling me in his arms. I let out a surprised yelp, wanting to demand that he put me down.
I don’t want to be lectured while being treated like a fragile little bird.
I’d rather be standing on my feet, even if it hurts or I’m unsteady.
But I don’t tell him to put me down; instead, I find myself leaning my cheek against his shoulder and closing my eyes, letting his warmth calm my racing heart.
And after all my worries, Emmanuil doesn’t lecture me.
He carries me inside, upstairs to his private bathroom off his bedroom, and gently sets me down on the edge of the bathtub.
“I’m going to need you to take off your pants, Anya.”
I scrunch my face and rear back. “I’m not taking my pants off!“
“How am I supposed to help you if I can’t get to the wound?” he sighs. “Stop being a pain in the ass and let me help you.”
With my mouth pulled to the side, I roll my eyes and carefully stand up to wiggle out of my jeans.
Emmanuil crouches in front of me to help me.
I set my hand on his shoulder for balance.
The more I move, the more it hurts. And peeling the blood-soaked fabric away from the wound, where the blood is drying a little and the jeans are sticking to my skin, hurts even more.
I wince and he pauses. “Sorry,” he mutters.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “Just get them off.”
He slides my jeans off and pushes them away, across the floor.
There’s a lot of blood, but thankfully it’s not too deep. It’s right across the side of my thigh, a long jagged sort of tear. It’s going to leave a decent scar.
“Sit down,” he says, gently pushing me to sit on the edge of the tub again.
He runs his hands slowly over both my legs, brushing up my thighs as he examines the wound. I don’t think he’s even conscious that he’s touching me like this. My blood is pumping faster, his touch sending an electric spark pulsing through me.
I don’t even want him to stop, because it’s distracting me from the pain.
But it’s causing my head to spin in different ways.
Emmanuil picks up a little white bottle with a spray nozzle, and I squeal.
“No, wait. It’s going to sting,” I blurt out.
He chuckles and shakes his head. “No, not this one. Not like the alcohol disinfectant does. It might burn a bit, but it won’t be bad.”
He picks up a piece of white gauze and begins to methodically clean the wound. He’s right, it doesn’t hurt as much as I expected, but it definitely has some spice to it as it soaks into my torn flesh.
I distract myself by watching Emmanuil, letting my eyes trace over his gorgeous face. The perfect lines of his strong, square jaw. His wide mouth and dark stubble. I have missed him every single day since I walked away.
Even now, looking at him aches deep in my heart.
I clear my throat to stop the tears burning at the back of my eyes. Crying won’t help anything. It won’t make him hate me any less. It won’t take me back in time to a moment where I could lie in his arms and hear him whisper I love you against my hair.
“I’m almost done,” he says gently, and I realize he’s looking at me. His face is soft and caring. His eyes are full of warmth. Up close like this, I can see the gorgeous dark green is flaked with tiny specks of gold.
He reaches out and brushes his fingers over my cheek. “The worst part is over. I’ve taped it closed, now I just need to bandage it so it can heal. And you’re safe, Anya. No one can reach you here. I’ll keep you safe.”
“No stitches?” I ask, quickly brushing away the one stupid tear that escaped.
“No stitches,” he smiles, a beautiful, genuine smile that melts my insides and sends another tear rolling down my face.
“All of the adrenaline is wearing off, kitten. You’re probably in shock. It’s okay to feel emotional or scared.”
I nod.
Thank goodness he doesn’t know what I’m really crying about.
I’m not scared. I’m not in shock.
But I’d rather have him assume that than realize I’m crying because I’m still in love with him.
“Let’s get you something to eat. Something sweet. The sugar will help. And a couple of painkillers.”
My leg is very neatly bandaged, wrapped professionally in clean white strips. It’s still throbbing, but manageable.
I move to stand up, and he’s instantly at my side with his arm around my waist. Being this close to him, half undressed, after his hands have been all over me—it’s dangerous. I find myself staring up at him, wide-eyed, still thinking about the past, wishing it had never ended.
Emmanuil’s breathing shifts. His fingers tighten over my waist, digging into me.
“Anya,” he says my name, a growl, a whisper.
“Yes?” I whisper in response.
He shakes his head, trying to break whatever spell he was momentarily under.
“Uh—can you walk?” he asks, his voice suddenly normal, his jaw tight.
“I can,” I say, sulkily, pushing him away.
But as I try to put my weight on the leg, it buckles beneath me, pain shooting up my thigh.
He catches me in his arms and lifts me, cradling me again. My cheeks flush pink. His hand wraps around my ass, sending waves of heat crashing through me. Fuck. This is horrible.
He clears his throat loudly.
“I’ll, uh, I’ll take you to bed. You should rest anyway. I’ll bring some food and meds up to you.”
I nod. Even though I don’t want to be alone, I have to accept that things will never be the same between us.
The man who once loved me was hurt so badly by what I did that he hates me now. That’s my reality. I can’t undo what I did. I can’t go back in time.
It is what it is.
“Thank you,” I murmur as he carries me to my room and sets me gently on the bed.
“I’ll be back in a moment,” he says, not looking at me. “Do you want other clothes?”
“My sweatpants, please, in the closet.”
He shuffles around until he finds them, then hands me the pants and a clean T-shirt. “Try not to move around too much. You need to heal and rest.”
“Okay,” I say quietly.
Emmanuil leaves, and I can’t tear my eyes away from the door. My heart is swelling in pain, large cracks forming along it, breaking all over again.
Somehow, through the years, I think I made myself believe that one day in the future we could be together again. But now that I’ve met him all over again, I know it will never happen.
It’s over. Forever. He will never love me like he did before.
And I can’t blame him, only myself.