Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 54572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
And anyone who thought they could take her from me had just learned exactly how wrong they were.
Chapter 21
Loco
The adrenaline didn’t leave all at once.
It drained out of me slow and mean, like poison bleeding from a wound that never closed right. One minute I was standing in the basement with a gun still warm in my hand, then her breath against my neck, and the next I was in a hospital hallway that smelled like antiseptic and bad memories, watching nurses wheel her away from me.
“Sir, we need you to stay here.”
I didn’t want to stay anywhere. I wanted to go with her. I wanted my hands on her. I wanted eyes on her every second because the second I let her out of my sight once, she disappeared.
Tower’s hand landed on my shoulder, firm. “She’s breathing. She’s talking. Let them work.”
I nodded like I understood words.
I didn’t.
The hallway was too bright. Too clean. Every sound echoed. A monitor beeped somewhere down the corridor and my heart synced to it, jumping every time the rhythm stuttered.
I paced.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
I replayed everything. The chain. The way her wrists looked raw. The calm in her eyes that scared me more than if she had been screaming. The way she had said she knew would find her—like it was faith, not hope. That kind of belief is a fucking responsibility. One I couldn’t fail at.
A doctor finally came out—middle-aged, tired eyes, steady voice. “She’s stable. Dehydrated. Bruising, no breaks or pains No internal injuries that we can see right now. We’ll keep her overnight for observation.”
I exhaled for the first time in what felt like days.
“She’s asking for you.”
My knees almost buckled.
The room was dim when I walked in. Curtains half drawn. Machines murmuring softly like they were afraid to wake her. She lay propped up on pillows, IV in her arm, hair still tangled from concrete and fear.
Her eyes found mine instantly. There it was again.
That look. Relief so sharp it cut.
I crossed the room in three steps and took her hand like it might vanish if I didn’t anchor it. She squeezed back, weak but deliberate.
“You stayed,” she murmured.
I swallowed hard. “Not going anywhere.”
The words came out rougher than I meant them to.
She studied my face, her brow knitting. “You’re shaking.”
I didn’t realize I was until she said it. My hands were trembling. My chest felt hollow, like something vital had been scooped out and replaced with air. I pulled a chair close and sat, still holding on to her.
“I’m fine,” I said automatically.
She shook her head. “No, you’re not.”
That did it. Something cracked open behind my ribs, sharp and sudden. I leaned forward until my forehead rested against the side of the bed, my grip tightening like I was afraid she’d slip away again. “I thought I lost you,” I admitted, the words tearing out of me before I could stop them. “I keep seeing that room. Keep thinking if I’d been slower, if Dippy hadn’t, if you’d.”
Her fingers brushed my hair, gentle. “Dante.”
“I can’t do that again,” I whispered. “I can’t live in a world where you’re gone.”
Silence stretched between us, thick and heavy.
Then she said softly, “I don’t want you to.”
I looked up at her then. Really looked. Bruised. Exhausted. Still fierce. Still here.
“I made him angry,” she said quietly. “I wouldn’t drop the case. I wouldn’t lie. I kept thinking, if I just hold on a little longer, Dante will come and you did.”
“You did exactly what you were supposed to do,” I said. “You survived.”
Her eyes shone. “Because I knew you’d come.”
That faith again. It terrified me. I stayed with her until the nurse kicked me out long enough for them to run a second set of labs just as a precaution. When they let me back in, she was sleeping. I sat there in the dark, watching her chest rise and fall, counting breaths like a punishment or a reward, I wasn’t sure which.
Every time she shifted, my heart jumped.
Hours later they discharged her into my care with strict instructions and a list of things I barely heard. I took her home.
My short term rental place. She didn’t argue. Just leaned into me, exhausted, trusting me with the weight of her. Inside, everything felt different. Smaller. Like the walls knew how close I’d come to losing her.
I helped her out of her clothes with hands that still shook, careful of every bruise, every flinch. She didn’t pull away. Didn’t rush me. Just let me move slow, reverent.
I wrapped her in one of my shirts. It swallowed her.
“Smells like you,” she said faintly.
“Good,” I replied. “That means you’re safe.”
In bed, she curled into my chest immediately, like her body already knew where it belonged. I wrapped myself around her, arm tight at her back, palm splayed over her ribs, feeling her breathe.