“Are you okay?” Trace rushed over to her.
She heard what he was saying, but for some reason she couldn’t respond. All she could do was stare at the man lying dead on her bedroom floor.
A man Trace had just killed.
“Baby, talk to me.” He cupped her face with both hands. “Are you hurt?”
Am I?
Her scalp still stung, and her chin throbbed from a gun being shoved beneath it. But other than that, she was fine.
“I’m fine,” she whispered.
A hysterical laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep inside. Because fine was about the farthest thing from how she really felt.
Sounding far away, Trace began talking to someone on the phone. He told them about the intruder and the shooting.
The person on the other line must’ve asked about her, because his next words were, “She’s in shock. Send an ambulance.”
That snapped her out of whatever trance she’d been in.
“No ambulance.” Emma blinked and looked back at Trace. “No ambulance, no hospital.”
To the person on the phone, he said, “I gotta go. I’ll see you when you get here.” His tone softened when he spoke to her. “Baby, you’re in shock, and you need to get those cuts on your face treated.”
Cuts?
Moving robotically, Emma brought her hand to her cheek. Pinpricks of pain registered, and she remembered the wood from her closet door hitting her as the man shot at Trace.
“You could’ve been killed.” She looked over to where he’d been standing when the man’s bullet nearly struck him. “He almost shot you.”
Sirens blared in the far-away distance. A warm breeze blew from the balcony, Emma’s sheer, white curtains blowing beside the open door and shattered glass.
“But he didn’t.” Trace blew it off. He seemed completely unaffected by her comment.
She looked back at him, his image blurring as she realized just how close they both came to dying.Again.
“You were almost killed.” Tears fell seamlessly down her face. “All because of me.”
“This isn’t your fault.”
“Stop saying that.” Anger began to replace her fear. “God, I’m so sick of everyonesayingthat!”
Pushing him away, Emma climbed to her feet. Swiping at the moisture and blood on her cheeks, she shook her head at the insanity of it all.
“First Jake, and now you...”
“Emma—”
“No, Trace. That bomb may not have been meant for me, but there’s no denying this one. This ismyapartment. Myhome. That man”—she pointed to the bloody corpse on her floor—“wasn’t here for you. He was here to kill me. And you...”
“I what?”
She crossed her arms at her chest and straightened her shoulders. “You shouldn’t even be here.”
“It’s my job to protect you.”
“No.” She shook her head. “It’s really not. You’re not my father or husband. We’re not even together. You have zero stake in this sick game, Trace. So, you should just...” Her voice cracked, but she cleared her throat and pressed on. “You should leave. Go back to Virginia while you’re still alive and able to do so.”