Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 32532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 163(@200wpm)___ 130(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 163(@200wpm)___ 130(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
She took one look at him, saw the blood streaming from a gash above his eyebrow, and—
No, no, no.
He could see it in the way her face paled.
All the things they had rehearsed were completely forgotten.
His Mira was running before she knew she was moving, her feet carrying her around the smoking wreck of the car toward him, every instinct screaming that she needed to reach him, touch him, make sure he was real and alive and whole—
Her eyes were on him alone, and so she missed what she should have seen.
Braxton, barely alive, dragging himself up to a sitting position, his eyes on his moving target, gun still in his hand.
And Zacharie...
It was all too easy for him to calculate everything.
The trajectory. The timing. The horrible mathematics of a bullet and the woman he loved.
And there was only one thing to do.
To save her life, he offered his.
Chapter Fourteen
THE AMBULANCE SIRENS wail above me, but the sound feels distant. Muffled. Like hearing the world through water.
I’m numb.
Completely, utterly numb.
I should be crying. I should be screaming. Instead I’m just sitting here like a broken mannequin, which Jassy would probably say is very on-brand for me.
My eyes stay fixed on Zacharie’s hand wrapped around mine. His grip is tight—too tight, really, his knuckles white with the effort of holding on. Like he’s afraid I might slip away if he loosens his fingers even slightly.
And even now, even bleeding, even with paramedics swarming around him—his thumb traces that familiar pattern on my knuckles.
Here. Now. Breathe.
The gesture cracks something inside my chest.
“It’s just a flesh wound,” he says.
His voice is steady. Calm. The same voice he uses when explaining security protocols or talking down armed criminals.
But I can see the truth.
His face is pale beneath the dried blood still streaking his temple. His breathing is shallow, labored, each exhale costing him something. The paramedics move around him with urgent efficiency, hands pressing gauze against his shoulder where the bullet tore through, their murmured instructions sharp with barely concealed alarm. The smell of copper and antiseptic fills the cramped space, and I can feel the cold metal of the ambulance wall pressing against my back, grounding me in a reality I don’t want to be part of.
“I’ve had worse,” he adds.
I nod.
“So everything’s going to be okay.”
He says a couple other things, too. Something about Braxton being dead. Something about security details and safe houses and plans he’s already set in motion. But none of it really sinks in.
All I can see are faces.
Dane, pale and unconscious in a hospital bed.
Trina, smiling in photographs at her own funeral.
The other girls from the auction—thriving in their new lives, Tanya had said. Clean breaks. Fresh starts. While I’m still here, still creating problems, still dragging everyone around me into danger.
And maybe...
Maybe it’s also my fault that Braxton became the monster he was?
If I had just stayed quiet that night at Trina’s party. If I hadn’t told her what her boyfriend tried to do. If I had been smarter, less impulsive, less foolish—
“Talk to me, Mira.”
Zacharie’s voice cuts through the spiral, sharp with concern.
It just makes me want to cry.
He’s the one who’s been shot. He’s the one losing blood, fighting to stay conscious, surrounded by paramedics trying to keep him stable. And he’s worried about me?
I slowly turn my gaze to his.
But instead of seeing his face—those blue eyes I love, that sharp jaw, the mouth that kissed me awake just hours ago—all I can see is Tanya.
Her condescending smile.
Her cutting words.
Agents like him don’t grow on trees. Civilians who get them killed, unfortunately, do.
The ambulance lurches to a stop.
Doors fly open, daylight flooding the cramped interior, and the paramedics are already moving, unlocking the stretcher wheels, preparing to rush him inside.
All I can think is—
“Mira?”
Zacharie got lucky this time.
But what about the next?
The paramedics try to pull the stretcher out, but Zacharie’s grip on my hand only tightens. I can see him fighting to stay conscious, his eyelids heavy, his face growing paler by the second. The shoulder wound is worse than he admitted—of course it is, he’d never tell me the truth if he thought it would scare me—and still he holds on.
Still he refuses to let go.
“Mira—”
“Sir, you have to let go of her hand.” One of the paramedics, firm but not unkind. “We need to get you inside now.”
I look at him.
Beautiful.
Bleeding.
Burdened with someone like me.
“I’m sorry,” I hear myself say.
The words come from somewhere far away.
God, oh God.
And then I wrench my hand out of his hold.
“But I don’t want this kind of life with you.”
“What are you—Mira—”
His voice cracks on my name—his accent thickening, his hand actually trembling as it reaches for empty air where mine used to be—and it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him look anything less than completely in control.