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“He punched me,” I told him. Then, “I’m okay.” Though, it didn’t feel that way.
I could handle this situation when the only place I thought I was truly unsafe was on the street. But now that my own apartment was compromised, I wasn’t sure how I was going to be able to function.
There was no way I could sleep, that was for sure.
“I’m on my way,” Elian said.
“He’s gone,” I told him, suddenly realizing there was nothing this man could do. So why the hell was I even bothering him? “There’s nothing you can—“
“I’m on my way. Tell your doorman to let me up,” he told me, then ended the call before I could object again.
I called downstairs, having to try twice—likely because Brian was talking to my neighbor—before I got him on the line, then explained to let Elian Lombardi up for me before unlocking my door.
I was halfway back to my kitchen, ready to grab an icepack for my cheekbone and my rescue medicine, when the nausea came on hard and fast, leaving me no choice but to run into the bathroom and retch.
I was still sitting on my bathroom floor, rocking in pain, when I heard footsteps making their way through my apartment.
If this was how I died, so be it.
I couldn’t muster any motivation to try to get up and run for my life.
“Elizabeth…” Elian’s voice said, tone soft. “Oh, baby,” he added at my pathetic whimper.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Elian
I knew they weren’t going to just let it drop. Not after something as serious as an actual public shooting.
Some part of me hadn’t been able to sleep at night, wondering if I was going to see her face on the news, if they were going to say she was a victim of some tragic, senseless shooting.
I was actually fucking relieved to hear her panicked voice on the other end of the phone because at least it meant she was still alive.
Even if someone was still actively coming for her.
The doorman was busy talking to a group of residents, telling them about the break-in, so all he did was spare me a nod as I told him my name.
I felt a surge of concern when she didn’t answer her door, and then the knob turned in my hand. I moved inside, that feeling of unease growing as I walked into an empty space.
It wasn’t until I moved into her bedroom that I heard it, a low whimpering sound coming from the attached bathroom.
That was where I found her, knees to her chest, arms around her legs, and rocking in pain next to the toilet.
A migraine, it seemed like.
As if she didn’t have a bad enough night already.
“What can I do?” I asked. “Do you want some meds?” I asked.
The balls of her hands pressed into her eyes as she nodded at me.
“Over the counter or prescription?” I asked.
“Script,” she said, voice small.
I rushed back out to the kitchen, going into her cabinet to find two different prescription meds. Not really knowing the names, I brought both of them back with me and a bottle of water.
She reached for them frantically, uncovering her face for the first time, and letting me see the bruise blooming across her cheek.