Page 9

YULIAN

I don’t think.

I don’t wait.

I don’t waste one goddamn second.

I grab Mia and throw her to the floor under me.

She lets out a scream. I can feel the shock in her body, her wide eyes staring up at me without understanding. “Yul?—?”

“Stay down!” I bark. “Keep your head low.”

For once, she doesn’t argue.

Around us, the other guests are screaming, running every which way. In their panic, they end up straight in the line of fire.

I watch their bodies drop like flies, one after the other, blood spraying mercilessly on the toppled flower arrangements.

The lilies, once white, turn red within seconds.

When I realize Mia is staring at the scene, too, I pull her head in the crook of my arm. “Close your eyes,” I growl. “Don’t look.”

She gives a quick nod. I can feel her bury her face against me, like I’m the only safe place she’s ever known.

My protective instincts surge, stronger than before. Stronger than ever.

I tuck her close and wait for the rain to pass.

Memories are crowding my mind, pushing against the walls of my skull, but I won’t let them. No matter how insistently they demand my attention, I’m not going to give it.

Right now, I need to stay lucid. Need to keep my focus no matter what.

The past has already happened.

Bullets, flying in through the windows. A shower of broken glass and gunmetal. The smell of gunpowder, so strong I can’t breathe.

Blood. Blood. So much blood.

I can hear them scream—my parents, my sister, my family. The only family I’ve ever known.

And Kira, too, dropping like a stone at my side.

I plant my nails into my arm, force myself to snap out of the unwanted memory. The pain grounds me, turns my focus razor-sharp again.

Then the bullets stop.

It’s my chance. The only chance I might get.

“Let’s go.”

Mia stumbles after me. Pulling her upright takes longer than I’d like, but after that, it’s only a matter of keeping her steady and running. Her body weighs nothing compared to mine.

We rush past the corpse of a bridesmaid and head for the garden.

As we make our way through the grass, Mia doesn’t say anything. Her feet are uncertain but quick, tripping along like a newborn fawn. My arm is around her waist, and her face—tear-stained, makeup-streaked, the spaces between her freckles spattered red with blood—is still tucked into my side.

I hear her exhale, soft and shaky. As if she thinks we’ve made it past the worst.

She has no idea that this —getting away, getting out alive—is the most dangerous part.

Whoever opened fire on us won’t want us to live to tell the tale.

“Wait.”

I pull Mia to me and flatten myself against the wall, one hand pressed to her mouth. She looks up at me then, her blue eyes lost and confused, but I don’t have the luxury to explain.

Instead, I press my free finger to my lips.

She nods once, trusting me.

A few people rush out of the church, running ahead. They don’t see us—they can’t. They’re too agitated, too blind with fear to pay attention to the darkness.

Then they start dropping.

The shots are quiet. Silenced. They whistle through the air and that’s it: one dead, two, three women fall like marionettes in the grass.

Mia chokes a scream into my hand, eyes gone wide and terrified.

“Don’t look,” I whisper again.

Her eyes flutter shut. I can feel something wet on my hand, dropping down my fingers like pattering rain.

Tears, I realize. She’s crying. For strangers.

“Maks,” I mutter into my phone. “Bring the car. Now.”

Moments later, Maksim’s limo skids to a stop next to us. He must’ve already been on his way. “Get in!”

I don’t need him to tell me twice.

I throw Mia into the backseat head-first, then I follow. Before I’ve even shut the door, the engine is already roaring again, Maksim’s foot slamming on the gas pedal.

Then we’re off into the night.

I wait until the shots fade, then turn to Mia. “Are you?—”

Hurt, I want to ask, but the word dies in my throat.

She isn’t wounded, not physically. But her eyes are still huge, unblinking, her mouth forming words that won’t come. Her hands, rigid like blocks of ice, still haven’t let go of my arm.

I don’t make her.

“Mia.” My voice drops low, as soft as I can ever make it. “It’s over now. You’re safe.”

She’s shaking like a leaf. I can hear her teeth rattling, can feel her sharp intakes of breath like she’s forgotten how inhaling and exhaling works.

The protective thing inside me roars, fierce. It roars for her—for Mia Winters, or whatever her real name is.

I have no idea why. She’s nothing to me.

Then why are you still holding her?

I chalk it up to the memories. Once, a long time ago, I lost people just like this. People who actually meant something to me—people who meant everything. I tell myself that’s all this is: me, projecting. Feeling what I felt then, like an echo of a long-forgotten song.

And yet, it’s hard to make myself believe it.

Not when every inch of my body wants to wrap around hers and never let go.

I swallow down the urge and stay where I am. This is why I don’t date for real: it’s too fucking inconvenient. Being with someone means getting attached. It means giving a shit about them, tying yourself to them.

It means that, when a bullet goes through their chest, you feel it.

Like it was your own damn heart.

That’s a weakness I can’t afford.

“Mia,” I whisper, “talk to me. Tell me you’re alright.”

I tell myself it’s just insurance. I don’t want to waste my time driving her to the hospital, or filling out police reports, or paying for her therapy. After all, she signed up for this, didn’t she?

Except she didn’t. She had no idea who you were.

But now, she does.

Next to me, Mia finally moves. It’s so imperceptible I almost don’t catch it: a slow, shaky nod.

“Yeah,” she croaks. “Yeah, I—I’m good.”

Strong. It shouldn’t be the first word to come to mind, but it is. This woman, whoever she is—she’s way stronger than she seems.

Way fucking stronger than Brad Baldwin seemed to be giving her credit for.

But she isn’t strong enough to go home right now.

It’s a split-second decision, but like all the other choices I make, I don’t second-guess it.

“Do you trust me, Mia?”

Trust. It’s a word I’m not used to anymore. It’s been ages since I spoke it. Since I meant it.

There’s no reason she should say yes, but she does. “Yeah. I do.”

“Maks,” I bark, “turn left. We’re taking a detour.”