I saw her thinking about it. “That’s it, Kayla. Come to me. I’ll get you out of here. I know none of this is your fault.”
The knife wavered against Juliette’s vulnerable throat. I held my breath, fighting to keep my expression calm as I looked only at Kayla.
I took another step and Kayla stiffened, her eyes narrowing. “It’s your fault that I have to do this.”
She lifted the knife and held it above Juliette, the bloody shaft threatening to impale the love of my life.
“No, Kayla!”
Pop! One shot rang out. In slow motion, the knife dropped as Kayla screamed and clutched at her shoulder.
Without thought, I ran, grabbed Juliette, and barreled back through the crowd. I had to get her away from the danger. I had to save her.
Juliette’s whimpers cut through my terror, and I slammed to a stop, looking down at the beautiful, bloodied woman in my arms for the first time. “Baby,” I choked out, tears blurring my vision.
Liam and Ryan were right behind me, followed by Chief, Squirrel, and Crash pulling a stretcher.
I laid Juliette down on the stretcher, entrusting her to the care of my brothers.
32
Juliette
“I’m okay,” I said again. Well, I mumbled the words as best as possible without moving my lips.
“Shh, don’t talk,” Dylan pleaded. “I can’t stand to see you in any more pain.”
I tried to give him a reassuring look, but I don’t think I succeeded because he continued to look tortured. I was okay. Mostly. The cuts on my neck and chest were mostly superficial, and while they hurt, there was no major damage done. The doctor closed most of them with glue and bandages, except for a few stitches on my sternum. They’d x-rayed my ankle, and it wasn’t broken, just sprained. It was elevated and wrapped, and they’d said I’d get a boot before going home. Dylan had been a stickler for icing it, but he caved last time when I said the ice hurt.
My mouth was the worst. The cut required internal stitches for the muscle as well as external stitches. It was swollen and ithurt. The drugs helped dull my pain, but not my fear. My mouth barely worked before. What if my speech was even worse after this?
My parents, Audrey, Jenna, and Nicky had taken turns visiting, and they’d told me that the waiting room was filled with the guys from Dylan’s fire house, the guys and girls from Station 7, and some police officers until the nurses had kicked everyone out. They’d attempted to kick Dylan out too but quickly gave up when he fiercely refused. Thank God. I’d slept a little on and off, and I’d already had a nightmare.
Without releasing my hand, Dylan pulled his chair closer to the bed, reclined, and propped his feet up at the foot of the bed. “I’m not going anywhere, baby. Go to sleep. If you need me, just squeeze my hand.”
Now that Dylan and I were finally alone, I had so many thoughts and emotions running through my mind, and I hated that I couldn’t tell him any of it. One of my favorite things about us was that it was always so easy to talk to him, and now I couldn’t say anything at all. I wanted to tell him everything that went through my mind when I was being held at knifepoint. I wanted to tell him that I was scared, but I tried to be brave. That I tried my best to talk to her and to avoid the knife, and even though I know my dyspraxia made me less effective, I never stopped trying. I wanted to tell him that I was thinking that, if I didn’t make it, I hoped he knew how much I loved him. I wanted to tell him that it still hurt, and I was still scared. But the doctor said to talk as little as possible to avoid opening or aggravating the stitches. The emotions trapped inside my mind leaked from my eyes instead.
“Juls, baby. Are you in pain? Should I call for the nurse?”
I shook my head slightly and the pull and sting in my neck made me immediately regret it. I couldn’t communicate at allwithout hurting myself more. It made me want to scream. Or sob. But I couldn’t do either.
“Love…you. Want…talk.”
“Baby, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry you are in pain, I’m sorry you were scared, I’m sorry you can’t talk now. I’m so, so sorry that it’s all because of me and my fucking psychotic ex-wife.”
“Not you.”
Dylan grunted his disagreement. “You’re going to be okay, baby. The plastic surgeon who stitched you up is the best in the city. He said it should all heal well with minimal scarring. Kayla is going to jail. She’ll never be able to hurt you again. You’ll be okay soon, baby.”
“S…” I couldn’t even come close to saying the word speech. “Talk.”
“You’re worried about talking? About your speech?”
I nodded and cried harder.
Dylan leaned over and gently wiped my tears. “You’re killing me, baby. And you’re moving your neck and mouth too much. The doctor said your mouth should heal fine with no lasting impact. I asked about that for you. It’s going to be okay. Can I please get the nurse to bring you meds? You need to sleep so you can heal.”
I gave a gentle nod, grateful that I did when I saw the relief in Dylan’s eyes.