Page 3 of Corrupted By the Shadow King (Hope Runs Deep #3)

Alex

“ E l Lobo, you’re bleeding.” Ricky gasps. “Let’s get you home.” He stomps on the gas as soon as the gearshift is in drive and rushes out of the parking lot.

Angel’s eyes land on my sleeve and widen.

He reaches for my jacket and helps me get it off.

I wince because of the friction and consider popping Angel between the eyes.

I have to remind myself that this is Angel.

My baby brother, whom I love. The person I shared my childhood bedroom with.

I feel like strangling him weekly, but I don’t want to hurt him.

“El Lobo , estás bien ?” Ricky asks in an uneven voice, whipping our car around a big blue and white rig, and its horn blares once we’re in front of it.

“ Yo estoy bien ,” I reassure him that I’m okay. It’s a lie, and we all know it.

“Right,” he snaps at me.

“Just drive!” I bark out the order when his mouth pops open to respond.

His eyes flicker to the rearview mirror, and his forehead creases as he scowls at me.

He wants to argue but knows taking me to a hospital is out of the question.

I’m not budging on this subject. No matter how much pain I’m in, this car is not to be stopped, especially if the reason is to take me to an emergency room.

There are three of us, and there is no telling how many Santiagos are nearby.

We are wildly outnumbered, no matter what angle I look at it.

I’m in no state to go toe-to-toe with anyone else from that backstabbing family.

Ricky hasn’t mentioned anyone tailing us, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t out searching for us.

Angel was right, there will be hell to pay as soon as they regroup.

“Where to?”

“To my new palace.” San Antonio has been on our radar for a while, but we weren’t planning a takeover for another three months. That would have allowed our front business enough time to finish planting social roots within the community and lessen the focus on us.

“Vamos, Rey,” Ricky calls out to me from behind the steering wheel.

I growl under my breath when Angel rips my shirt open, and he gulps. “You liar!” he grouches, moving his eyes from my face to my arm. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“I’ll live.” I wave him off with scowl as his blade tears through the fabric over my stomach. He grunts as he rips loose a long piece of my shirt, cutting the end once he’s happy with the length.

“You are fucking right, you are. I told you I’m not doing this shit by myself!” Angel sneers, wrapping the strip of fabric above my wound and pulling it as tight as it will go in a makeshift tourniquet. I grind my teeth as I hiss because of the pain.

Angel loudly huffs. “It’s not helping. Lift your arm above your head while I think of something.

” His lips press together as he digs through our emergency kit, and he nods, snatching a needle and fishing line out.

He sets them on the seat beside me, swiping the back of his hand over his forehead.

He grabs the needle and line, sticking his tongue out of the corner of his mouth while he feeds the end of the fishing line through the eye of the needle.

“Taking up crafting, hermano ?” I push myself to smile for his benefit, trying to lighten the mood.

He’s scared. The crime life doesn't come as naturally to him as it does to me.

Honestly, it never has, even if he is a mean fucker when he needs to be.

He can kill at the drop of a hat, but he doesn't like to.

I can remember when we were kids, guns made him nervous, and he passed out at the sight of blood.

Now, he will defend me and our family when necessary.

This life has changed him. As for me, I think I have always been a violent bastard.

“Fine. Go ahead and make jokes. I don’t give a shit what you do as long as it isn’t dying.”

“Angel, I’m not dead.”

“Not yet,” he bites with his usual feistiness, but his voice quivers. His eyes widen, and he nips at the corner of his mouth with his teeth. He chews on his lips when he’s upset and has done it since we were kids.

I follow his line of sight from the blood-saturated cuff of my sleeve up to the red trail on my outer deltoid, and I gasp. “ Mierda !” I cuss. Maybe he isn’t overreacting as much as I think.

“ Mierda is right, Alejandro. You’re losing a lot of blood. I have to stitch you up.”

“When did you learn to do that?”

“Today.” He whispers a soft prayer, pinching the needle between his fingers, and inches near my arm. “It doesn’t matter. I have to stop the bleeding first.”

I cough, getting strangled on my spit. I don’t understand. Not enough time has passed for there to be that much blood. It doesn’t make sense. “Ricky, I need the cigarette lighter from up there.”

“Okay.” Ricky obliges him, and Angel huffs.

“I need it hot.” He’s losing his ability to stay calm.

“Why in the hell do you need that? You don’t even smoke,” I ask.

“Remember you love me?”

“Huh?”

“I have to cauterize it. I have to stop the bleeding. At this rate, you’ll be dead before we cross into Texas.”

“No!” I barely get out of my lips before I howl in pain moments after when he slams it against my gunshot wound.

The putrid scent of burnt copper and flesh overpowers me.

My breathing races into overdrive. I clutch the leather seat and dig my nails into its surface.

I need to feel something—anything—other than this unreal pain.

My arm throbs and burns. It’s too much. Heat floods my body, and I don’t know if it’s from what Angel did or something else.

My sides shake as I wail when he yanks the lighter off my skin.

“Again,” he says to Ricky. His face is unreadable. He stares blankly at me through tears, lifting his hand over his shoulder, and hands the cigarette lighter back to Ricky.

“Angel. NO. Please, no more,” I beg him, knowing I can’t take another burn.

“ Lo siento ,” he utters the same words our mother used to use any time she apologized to us. It was something she’d say to comfort us since we were small. I miss her. She and my father have been gone for close to five years now.

I nod slowly in agreement.

Ricky lets him know the cigarette lighter is ready, and Angel grabs it. His hand shakes, and just as I’m about to protest again, he rams the bright orange end onto my arm.

My stomach churns, bile rises into my throat, and my eyelids are heavy.

I can’t figure out if I’m going to vomit or pass out.

Everything looks fuzzy, and I reach for my brother, trying to remember how to form words.

I need to tell him to stop. He’s killing me.

I blink slowly, begging my eyelids to remain open, but they won’t listen.

They close one last time. Finally, the pain is gone.

A spider crawls across my shoulder, sinking its sharp teeth into my skin countless times.

I swat at it for what seems like an eternity, but it's relentless. Just when I think I’ve killed it, it shoves its fangs into my skin another time.

This insect has to die! I draw my fist back and thump it against my flesh over and over.

Hitting myself to kill it is better than letting the spider continue.

“Alejandro! Stop! Wake the fuck up!” My brother shrieks.

I open my eyes. It’s dark, but I can make out Angel’s hand over his nose with fresh blood streaming down his cheeks. It’s nighttime, but how? The last thing I remember is Angel burning me when the sun was high in the sky.

“What in the hell happened?” I question him, straighten my back, and regret moving. Stabbing pain bulldozes up my arm and into my neck.

“You happened, bastardo loco !” Angel fumes, grabs a tissue, and holds it under his nostrils, pinching the bridge of his nose with his opposite hand.

“ Lo siento ,” I apologize with a groan, turning my head toward the pain. A mostly white bandage covers the biggest part of my upper arm. If I didn’t know the exact place the bullet entered and left my skin, I would know from the throbbing.

“It’s hot in here. Is the AC broken or something?” I mutter.

“Nope. It’s as low as it will go,” Ricky clarifies.

“Ha! Doubtful. I told you to get that shit checked a month ago, Ricky!” I scold him. It’s his fault. Why didn’t he listen to me? It wouldn’t be hot as hell in here if he had.

“Boss, you told me to have the oil changed, and I did. You didn’t mention the AC needing to be checked.”

I thought I had. I am certain I told him it wasn’t working right. This old car wasn’t working right. Why the hell are we in it, anyway?

“ Abuelito , give me your gun,” I instruct my grandfather as he pulls a tissue off his face and tilts his head to the side. Why is he looking at me like that? His brown eyes squint beneath his thick eyebrows. He looks different today—younger than I remember.

“ Abuelito ? Alex, are you okay?” my grandfather asks without doing as I request. Why isn’t he handing over his gun?

Maybe he’s sick. The abuelito I know would have blasted this asshole's skull open for him with his gold-wolf guns for less.

He presses his forearm onto my forehead, and I smack it away.

“Don’t fucking touch me! You’re not mi abuelito !

” I spit the words out in a hurry, looking for a weapon.

My hand snaps to the holster on my side.

I’ll kill both of these imposters. Sweat drips down my temples, and my heart pounds with the strength of a jackhammer.

My fingers clutch at the empty leather holder, and pure rage consumes me.

“Where the fuck are my guns? You rat bastards!”

“Alex, you have an incredibly high fever. You’re burning up,” the man I thought was my grandfather informed me cautiously, grabbing my hands. “I’m Angel, your brother.” He speaks in a slow, low volume, talking to me as if he is explaining something to a child.

They are smart, trying to convince me that I’m ill. I’m not. I would know if I am. Fine, I can’t shoot them, but I can escape.

I scan my surroundings while I figure out the best course of action.

The silver door handle catches my attention, calling my name.

Lucky for me, the vato steering is clueless and drives like a grandma.

This car might be old and should have been replaced years ago, but it still has plenty of power under its hood.

My fingers wrap around the handle, and I yank it open as soon as the car stops at a red light. I’m on my feet and sprinting across the street. The more distance I put between us, the better.

“Alejandro,” one man calls after me. Not today, asshole. I stumble forward, tripping over a rock. I move my feet fast to stop myself from smacking into the pavement, glancing over my shoulder when their tires screech to a halt.

“ Púdrete !” I yell the insult in their direction, returning my attention to escaping. I plant my feet, trying to stop. My momentum is too fast, though. My body whacks against something. No. Not something. Someone.