Page 33

Eve

Gabriel!

I try to scream it into my gag, but all that comes out is a muffled shriek. I saw the assistant's position change, the tension in his shoulders, and I knew. I knew what he intended, but I couldn't stop it. A muted thud, a flash from the muzzle, and Gabriel’s scream melds with my own.

No.

There's a wrench in my chest, a deep stabbing counterpoint to the physical agony in my wrists. He can't be dead. He can't.

The assistant lowers his weapon, and I tug at my bonds one last time, breath catching as they actually shift. I tug again, and my hands move. He did it. I'm free.

Gabriel groans. He's alive! My blood races, pumping through my veins like lava, setting my heart slamming in my chest. He's alive, and I'm free. There's hope.

I force myself to keep still, though I'm longing to move my aching shoulders. If the assistant thinks I'm still restrained, he won't see me as a threat. All my instincts scream at me to check on Gabriel, but I can't. Not yet.

The assistant's attention is locked on Gabriel. He walks over slowly, a smirk on his lips. “Not so special now, are you? You Brothers. Given the world on a silver fucking platter. And you threw it all away for a piece of ass.”

I keep my body still but risk a glance down at Gabriel. It's hard not to scream. Blood soaks his shirt, and he’s lying at an awkward angle. His face is deathly white and twisted into a grimace. He flinches with every labored breath.

I'm no expert, but with the blood he's losing, he can't have long left.

His eyes are open, though, and they meet mine. His lips move and he forces out, “I'm sorry.”

Sorry? I don't even have time to process it before my gaze lands on Gabriel's gun. It's slipped from his hand and rolled under my seat. I can reach it if I stretch.

The one useful thing my mom gave me was a solid working knowledge of firearms.

We had four, three in a locked cabinet and one in her bedside table. I know how to clean, load, and store a weapon. And I know how to fire one.

The assistant crouches beside Gabriel. Will he notice the dangling zip ties no longer trapping my wrists? He stares down into Gabriel’s face.

“She’ll bring a good price, this one. Young, hardly used. Premium merchandise.”

“No. Please.” Gabriel’s words are soaked in pain. “Don’t.”

“It’s already done.” The assistant's voice is gratingly cheerful. “Shame about the other bitch, but she’s past her best anyway. This one…”

I've got one chance. I stretch my arm down slowly, find the hilt of the pistol, and grip it. The assistant stops his gloating tirade and makes a sharp noise.

Before I can second-guess myself, I raise the gun and fire.

The bang is an exploding bomb in the silence. I don't have time to brace properly for the recoil, and my arm snaps back painfully. I barely even register it.

Red. Everywhere.

The bullet hits the assistant in the chest, and blood pours out, soaking his cheap, ill-fitting shirt, the disguise he wore to seem harmless and weak. Hiding the predator within.

In seconds, his shirt is a sodden rag drenched in blood.

His hands press against the hole in his chest, but he's trying to hold back the ocean and it's useless. His face pales as he falls to his knees coughing.

I should feel something, shouldn't I? My hands are shaking, but my brain doesn't seem to be connected with them. I'm numb as he spits out a mouthful of foamy red saliva. Calm as he topples forward, landing on his face.

Maybe I've been through so many shocks in the last two weeks that this one doesn't have a hope of registering. I killed a guy. Big deal. What's next?

The laugh that tears from my lips is a bright, sharp sawblade cutting through the air, and it raises the tiny hairs on my arms. It's not the sound someone makes when they're okay. Not by a long shot.

“Eve.”

Gabriel’s voice is barely a whisper. It slips through the brittle shell of panic in the way a shout couldn't have, calling me back down from wherever I was heading. He's hurt. He needs me. With a shudder, I tear my eyes from the corpse and focus on Gabriel.

He’s paler than before. Deep blue circles his eyes, and the stain on his black T-shirt has spread. I crouch beside him, though this goes far beyond my basic first aid.

Slow the bleeding, and call for help. Seeing no other option, I pull off my T-shirt and hold it against the wound. Gabriel cries out, and it's a twisting knife in my gut. Help. He needs help. I pat his pockets as red starts to tinge my T-shirt and pull out his phone.

“Run.” A raspy whisper. Gabriel's eyes are open and sharp, though tight from the pain. “Call 911, then run. It's…” He coughs, and the light spray of red makes my blood freeze. “It's your only chance.”

I try to open his phone, but it’s locked, of course. I stare at it, and his words sink in. He’s right. I'm out of the Compound. Once I'm behind those walls again, I might never get free.

His phone has fingerprint security. I hold it to his thumb, letting out a breath as it beeps. 911, then run. It makes sense. It's what I ought to do. But I hesitate, staring at Gabriel’s waxy skin.

An ambulance could take hours to find him, and he might not make it. For a horrible moment, I picture him dead, and it chokes the breath in my lungs.

No. Just no. Not even after everything. Looking at him, I realize what I have to do. It should feel heavy, but somehow, my fingers move easily as I open Gabriel’s contacts and find the name I know I have to call. At least this time, I know what I’m doing.

This time, it’s my choice.

I place the call, and Kendrick answers on the first ring. “Gabriel. Are you—”

“It’s Eve. Gabriel has been shot and needs emergency treatment right now. Can you track this phone?”

I’m amazed at how steady my voice sounds. Kendrick pauses for the beat of a heart, then answers. “Yes. I’ll organize a team.”

“Hurry.”

The call cuts out. I’ll say one thing in Kendrick’s favor—he’s not one to ask stupid questions or waste time. I’m sure he’ll have plenty of questions once we’re back inside his prison, though.

A sharp intake of breath brings my gaze back to Gabriel. He’s watching me, though his eyes are starting to close. Not good. I set the phone down and hold his hand. “I called Kendrick. They should be here to help you soon.”

His fingers give my hand a tiny, weak squeeze. “I love you.”

It’s a hoarse whisper, and his eyes slide all the way closed as shock ricochets through my bones. What? I tap his cheek, and his eyes flutter open. “Nope. You don’t get to say that, then pass out. Not good enough, Gabriel.”

His eyes close again, and his body goes slack. No. Fucking no. I tap his cheek again. “Stay with me!”

A sound breaks the moment. A deep rhythmic thrum getting louder by the second. It takes a minute for me to place it—a helicopter. The temptation to run outside waving my arms is huge, but I can’t risk taking the pressure off Gabriel’s wound.

The noise of the blades rises to a crescendo, in time with the panic in my chest. They can’t be too late. Please.

I love you.

The words rattle around in my skull as the door bangs open and three men who look more like soldiers than doctors rush in. There are shouted instructions, the clank of equipment, and “Move back, please, ma’am.”

The noise of the rotors pounds into my skull as I shuffle back, leaving my bloodied T-shirt behind. The men surround Gabriel, and I try to follow the flurry of IVs, injections, and bandages, but something strange is happening to me. I’m shivering. Why? I look down and realize I’m only wearing a bra. Gabriel will be furious with me .

My hands shake as the shivers intensify, and I bark a weird, loud laugh that has one of the men working on Gabriel looking over at me. He frowns, waves over a man I hadn’t noticed by the door, and says something.

The man disappears, then returns moments later with a blanket. He has a kind face, bright red hair, and freckles that probably make him look younger than he is. He wraps the blanket around my shoulders. “Ma’am. You’re in shock. Come with me, and we’ll get you home. He’s in good hands.”

His soothing voice does nothing to calm me, though I grip the blanket tight. “No. I’m not leaving him.”

“They’re prepping him for transport in the chopper. We can’t take both of you. You’ll have to come back in the car.”

As I watch, the doctors carefully transfer Gabriel to a wheeled stretcher, which folds up into a sort of gurney. An IV feeds liquid into his arm. I jump up on shaky legs as they push him toward the door. “Will he be okay?”

One of the men pauses as the others wheel Gabriel forward. His grave face makes my breath catch. “He’s lost a lot of blood, and the bullet damaged one of his lungs. We’ll have to operate once we’re back at the Compound. With a bit of luck, he should be fine.”

A bit of luck. Not the most reassuring phrase I’ve ever heard. I start to follow Gabriel out of the door, but the doctor speaks again. “Ma’am, if you hadn’t called when you did, he’d be dead. That’s a cert. You saved his life.”

He walks off before I get a chance to respond. I chase after them and watch as they load Gabriel onto the helicopter. He’s out cold now, and I shiver despite the blanket as the door closes. The man who gave me the blanket ushers me back, but dirt and dust still whip into my face as the chopper takes off. I watch it until it moves out of sight .

Once it’s gone, I look around the clearing. Now the helicopter has gone, other vehicles move in—two vans and two cars. The kind man, who seems to be my babysitter, points to one of the cars. “This way, ma’am. I’ll take you home.”

Home. The word doesn’t fit, but I’m no longer sure what word does. If it’s truly my prison, why didn’t I run when I could? Why do I care so much about my captor? I follow the man to the car, mind dazed as he opens the back door for me. From the corner of my eye, I see men in hazmat suits entering the warehouse. Clean-up crew.

I shudder.

If I tried to run right now, what would happen? I can guess. My kind babysitter would chase me down, restrain me, and drag me back to the Compound. But even if I could run, I don’t think I would. I need to see Gabriel’s eyes open and his mouth twist into one of his wicked smiles. I need to feel his touch again.

I love you.

He meant it. I know he did. I can’t say the same yet, but as I get into the car, all I can think of is getting back to him. Messed up? Yes, but it’s real. As the car door shuts, I only feel a hint of regret.