“Duck!” He yells to me.
I don’t question him; I hit the deck.
He fires off a round and I hear Helena scream in pain, followed by the thud of her body as she collapses to the floor. Typically, I’d be concerned, but the fact that she was about to carve me open like a Thanksgiving turkey has essentially eradicated any semblance of sympathy. I watch Masters approach her, a set of handcuffs materializing from his back pocket. She’s restrained in under a second. With grim proficiency, he tears a strip of fabric from the bottom hem of his t-shirt and tourniquets her leg so she doesn’t bleed to death.
The shock of the bullet in her thigh is enough to quell her struggles. She lies on the floor, whimpering in pain, as Masters picks up the knife and moves it far out of her reach. When he’s sure she’s not going anywhere, he crosses back to me. I’m still crouched on the floor, barely daring to breathe.
“Are you okay?” His voice is gentler than I’ve ever heard it as he stoops down to my level so we’re eye-to-eye.
I nod. “Oh, I’m just grand. Thanks for asking.”
His eyes crinkle a tiny bit, but his mouth is pressed into a solemn line. “The police are on their way. They should be here any minute.”
I stare at him. “You saved my life.”
Shrugging like it was nothing, he pushes to his feet. He flips on the nearest light switch, illuminating the room. The sudden brightness makes me blink. When my eyes refocus, I look around my living room. Between the shattered glass littering the floor and the bloody handprints trailing from Helena’s whimpering form to the front door, it’s like something straight off a scary movie set.
I look back at Masters and find he’s staring at me worriedly. I don’t say a word as I cross to him and throw my arms around his muscular frame. He goes still at first, but eventually his arms come up around me to return the stiff hug.
I don’t care if it’s awkward. I don’t care if he thinks it’s weird that his boss is hugging him. I don’t care about a thing except making sure he knows how grateful I am.
“Thank you, Kent,” I whisper, using his name for the first time since we met. “Thank you for saving my life.”
It could be my imagination, but I think his voice is a little thicker than normal when he speaks.
“Nice try, Firestone — getting yourself nearly murdered just so I’ll call you by your first name. Not gonna work, but I applaud the effort.”
I laugh through my tears — a hiccupping, horrible sound that catches in my throat and quickly turns to a sob.
He drops his arms and steps back, patting me on the arm like he doesn’t quite know how to handle my emotional display. We both hear the sirens at the same time, growing louder as they race down my street. Masters crosses to the security panel and punches in the code to open the gate. Flashing red and blue lights flood my driveway as two cruisers pull up in front of my house, followed closely by an ambulance. Uniformed officers leap from the vehicles like ants at a picnic, talking into radios and barking orders as they survey the scene.
Standing on my porch, I watch the paramedics load Helena onto a stretcher and wheel her toward the waiting ambulance — a lifeless, empty-eyed girl with no fight left in her. She stares straight up at the sky without a care in the world.
I try to summon sympathy.
None comes.
Masters is in the driveway talking to the police, gesturing from me to the house to Helena. I know I should join their conversation, should allow someone to look at my bleeding hands and ravaged wrist, but I am floating outside my body, experiencing everything as it unfolds like a passive bystander. It’s as if I’m watching a horror movie instead of living inside one.
There’s a crowd gathering at the end of my driveway — neighbors, news crews, paparazzi. All eager for details of Katharine Firestone’s horrific ordeal. Camera flashes mingle with flashes from the police cars, until the world turns to one giant strobe of color.
I’m not sure who arrives first. I just know that they all roll up, one after another — Harper in her used sedan, Wyatt in his shiny Audi, Grayson in the sleek Bugatti. The police attempt to stop them, but Masters waves them through. I try to conjure the strength to walk, to meet them halfway down the steps, but my feet aren’t cooperating. I have grown roots in this spot, beneath the dim porch light.
Wyatt moves faster than I’ve ever seen him. One second he’s behind the wheel and the next he’s there in front of me, face a mask of horror. He’s breathing rapidly, chest rising and falling like he’s just run a marathon. I see how his hand trembles as he reaches out and pushes a strand of hair behind my ear, so gently you’d think I was made of glass, liable to shatter under the merest pressure. His fingers hover by my ear as his eyes hold mine, communicating wordlessly. Asking permission without making a sound, because he doesn’t trust himself to speak without breaking down.
That’s all right. We’ve never needed words, anyway.
In total silence, I turn my head to lay my cheek in his big hand. A shudder of relief moves through him as his fingertips press into my skin.
I’m fine, my eyes say.I’m breathing.
The stubborn set of his jaw expresses the words he cannot say.
I could’ve lost you.
I know he’s aching to pull me into his arms — that he needs the crush of physical contact to remind himself that I’m real, that I’m alive, that I’m still breathing. I also know that, because he’s Wyatt, he’s holding himself tightly in check, putting his own needs behind mine until he’s one hundred percent sure I want his arms around me.
I’d roll my eyes at him, if I could find the strength. Instead, I look at him and force out a single word. A broken plea.