Page 114 of From West, With Regret

My stomach lurches with sickness, watching him continue to step backward, never taking his eyes off us. He’s sloppy and lazy, unaware of how far he’s wandered. His feet scrape against the rain-soaked street. The reflection of thesurrounding lights brighten his skin, highlighting the blood and bruises from our fight. But they also highlight the sheer bitterness and anger engrained in his expression.

“I’ll come back for you,” he calls. “And I’ll take you down with me.”

He takes another unsteady step backward into the street, into the traffic lane, past the cars parallel parked along the edge.

I follow London as she moves forward, but we barely make it to the point where the sidewalk meets the street before I hear her bone-chilling scream and feel my face splatter with blood I know isn’t mine.

THIRTY-TWO

LONDON

I figured I would be accustomed to the taste of blood by now, but it’s different when it isn’t your own.

West’s arms had just wrapped around me, dragging me toward the front of The Veiled Door, trying to pull me back from seeing Heath’s ravaged body smeared across the concrete.

He was too late.

I’d witnessed all of it. Heard it. Felt it.

The large New York City tour bus is splattered with Heath’s blood, but so are we.

It screeched to a halt, stopping as soon as it hit him.

Heath is dead. Officially.

Taking all his lies, deceit, and vengeance with him.

Snapping my mouth shut, I get a true taste of Heath’s blood. Bitter and sour. Pungent.

I vomit all over the wet pavement.

It’s only a matter of minutes before the crowd both gathers and disperses, all at the same time. It moves like a current to where Heath’s crushed body is smeared across the city street.

My hands shake uncontrollably, and when I finally gatherthe courage to look up and see West staring directly at me, reality sets in.

Blood is sprayed across my hands, like the splatter of spray paint I’d once used on a commissioned piece I’d done back in college for a friend of mine. I frantically try to wipe it away, but the dots just spread into streaks, coating my skin like faded ink.

“London.” West’s bloodied, bruised hands cradle my face, imploring me to look up at him. His face is covered with cuts, and I can’t tell which drops of blood are his, and which are Heath’s. He’s covered in it.

“West,” my voice quivers. “I tried?—”

“I know. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I tried to stop him but—” Heath has spent months stalking me, nearly killing us in the process, and although my love for him no longer exists, still, witnessing the death of your ex-husband, watching as his body turns to mush on the pavement, is something I would have never wished for Heath.

“There was nothing you could have done, London,” West says, blood dripping from his chin.

“No!” Glenna emerges from the front of the bar, racing across the sidewalk to try and reach her son, screaming at the top of her lungs, but Alden and the security guard posted at the front entrance of The Veiled Door stop her. “Heath!” she shouts, trying her best to fight against their hold, but she quickly gives up, collapsing onto the wet pavement. Her shoulders wrack with sobs and she rocks back and forth, clutching her chest. “My son!” she wails. “My son.”

I bite down on my bottom lip, trying to wrap my head around how the best night of my life turned into one of the worst.

Turning my attention back to West, I look up at him with watery eyes. Tears spill down my cheeks, and when I see thelarge gash to his temple, I gasp. Reaching up, I press my hand to it, trying to stop the bleeding.

The red splatter of blood has turned an unnatural shade of black, soaking into West’s green suit. I’ve never seen blood like this before.

Forcing myself out of the shock inside me feels like I’m being yanked back down to earth. West is my entire world, and he doesn’t look the same. He stumbles forward.

I catch him. “West, what’s wrong?” I ask, panic stricken.