Page 156 of Illicit Games

“It’s,” Iris coughs, her lips becoming white, “o-okay.”

“Baby, no.” I blink, trying to keep her in focus. Soon, I realize it’s my tears making her face blurry. “You can’t leave me. I haven’t fulfilled my promises to you. Hold on for me. Please. Please. I-I can’t survive without you.”

“I-I love you-u.”

Her ocean blue eyes close just as her body stops moving.

“NO!!”

Chapter Forty-Two

Kian

Iris isn’t waking up.

A week since she was shot twice. Since she took two bullets for me. Seven days since I’ve heard her angelic voice and looked into her hypnotic blue eyes.

The doctor’s words repeat in my head.

“She lost too much blood and was deprived of oxygen for too long. The gunshot to her chest was fatal. We took both the bullets out, but there were complications during surgery. We don’t know when she’ll wake up. We’re going to monitor her in the ICU.”

I’ve been dead inside ever since.

Thrust back into a world of gray.

Every single specialist I flew in from both in and out of the country has said the same—that it’s a waiting game.

She can’t leave me.

My little rainbow wouldn’t leave me.

I kept making promises about never letting her go. Little did I know, I should’ve made her promise me the same.

I stare at her comatose form lying on the bed in the ICU through the glass, hooked up to machines and IVs. Her chest steadily rises and falls like she’s taking a nap and will wake up at any moment. However, she never does.

What do I do?

How long is she going to punish me?

“She’s going to wake up.”

My head twists toward the voice. Guilt attacks me hard and fast at who it is. “Mr. Mannan.”

Iris’s father looks as withered as I do. The wrinkles around his red-rimmed eyes and mouth are more pronounced as he stares at me with matching sorrow and worry. “Come sit with me, son.”

I glance at Iris, not wanting her out of my sight. What if something happens while I’m gone again? Every time I leave her alone, she gets hurt.

A hand curls around my shoulder. “Sit with me, Kian. Iris is being looked after. She’s going to be fine.”

If it were anyone else, I wouldn’t listen. Reluctantly, I pull away. “Five minutes. Then I have to be back.”

“Okay.”

The two of us walk out of the ICU and into the family waiting area. We sit side by side on a bench. My entire body twitches with the need to run back to my girl.

“You haven’t been home, Kian,” Mr. Mannan murmurs.

“I’m not going back without her, sir.” Certainly not to that apartment or building. That place serves as a poignant reminder of our tragedy. It’s purgatory. No longer a home.