He swallows hard. “It doesn’t matter what they want.”
Those are the words he says, but what I hear is, It doesn’t matter what I want. Everyone wants their family. Even someone from a dark past full of abuse like him. He’s alone.
That’s when I realize I’m alone, too.
Even if I manage to heal enough to stand up, to walk out of this church, I’ll never be able to go back to my family, not with this murder on my hands. It would be too dangerous for them. They would be harboring a fugitive. I’ll never see London again. Never see my mom or my dad again. A tear slips down my cheek, following the trail of cooled broth.
Pain detaches itself from the space under his hands and curls lower to rest on my belly. Not as heavy down there. When it settles, I can bear it.
My eyelids are heavy, though, heavier by the minute.
Sleep feels cool, like the water I craved. I still crave it, but my lips won’t form the words. I’ll drink later. There will be a later, at least.
The pressure lifts off the wound and tension runs out of my body like rain. A careful hand brushes a lock of hair away from my forehead and smooths it down.
That’s the last thing I feel before my head slips under the surface.
CHAPTER THREE
London
These stairs are going to kill me.
I know, I know. The cocaine addiction will probably get me in the end. But the three flights to my walkup in Red Hook are giving the coke a run for its money. At least the stairs get my heart pumping and fresh oxygen into my blood. A girl needs to be revitalized after an endless day ringing up bougie coffee orders and having her face blasted by the moisture from a steam wand. The scent of espresso drifts off my clothes as I make the third-floor landing. The scent of coffee grounds follows me even into my dreams. Hazard of the job.
The key sticks in the lock and I force it, mapping out the path to the shower. Kick my shoes off at the door. Shirt off by the time I’m through the postage-stamp living room with my ratty couch.
Do not pass go, do not get dinner, do not do anything but climb into the water and stand there as long as it’s hot. I kick off my shoes, drop my purse, and step into the living room.
I’m reaching for the hem of my shirt when I see it, see him, and freeze.
The couch isn’t empty.
There’s a dead body on it.
I should run screaming in the other direction. I should call the cops, sobbing and hysterical. Part of me knows this, but the bigger part of me is… curious. It’s always been my downfall.
A step closer. And another. The large mass of muscled man compiles into someone I know. It’s Adam Black. The man who kidnapped my sister.
The man who saved her, too.
My heart crawls up into my throat. What is he doing here, in my apartment? I know I locked the door when I left. Did he manage to pick the lock in this condition? With that much blood on his shirt, he didn’t fight his way in here.
I don’t have time to consider the implications of the still-intact lock on the door, not really. Not when there’s a dead man on my couch. A cold flash freezes the back of my neck, followed by a hot flush of panic. Smuggling diamonds is one thing. Dealing with a dead body is another. The police are out of the question for a man like Adam. For a woman like me.
My pulse slams against my eardrums, working overtime, and I take a deep breath. It does nothing to crack open the icy fear encasing my lungs. Think of him as a man asleep on a couch, London. One step closer. One more. There.
From this vantage point—hovering over him, a half-step from the couch—things look even worse. His shirt has caved in to the wound below it. The fabric is soaked in blood. Adam has his face turned toward the back of the couch and he looks so still, so horribly still.
A bruise paints one of his cheeks.
I reach for him before I know what I’m doing. Oh, god. What if he’s cold?
If he’s cold, it’s too late, it’s way too late. I’m going to have to walk out of this apartment and never come back, not ever. I’ll have to convince Holly not to look for me, and she won’t be convinced. I know she won’t.
My fingertips are a whisper away from the purple bruise when he moves, a hand shooting out to grab my wrist. I suck a huge breath in for a scream and then swallow the sound, jagged edges and all. My pulse is too big for my veins, the silvery burst of adrenaline so powerful it feels like an electric shock. His eyes meet mine with sharp focus.
“Who did this to you?” My voice sounds thin and high and I swallow that, too. No time for falling apart now. “Who hurt you?”
His pupils recede, and he lets his head fall back on the one throw pillow I own. “An old friend.”
My mouth has gone dry, but I manage a casual tone. “With friends like that, who needs enemies?”
He huffs his amusement, focus slipping away from me and onto the ceiling. “I have enemies, too. Believe me, they’re worse.”
I detach his hand from my wrist and run my fingers through my hair. “Jesus. Okay. You’re here in my apartment. And you’re hurt, you’re dying, you’re—”
“Shot.” He winces as he pushes himself up against the arm of the couch. Not upright, but inclined. I can tell he pays a cost for this. “You can look, if you’re interested.”
“If I’m interested.” My lips buzz with a new bolt of adrenaline. What else is there to do but lift his shirt away from the wound? We both fumble with the project until the formerly gray fabric is over Adam’s head. There’s more blood underneath. Too much to see what I’m doing. “I’m going to help you, but first I need to freak the fuck out. Wait here.”
“No, I’ve got to go. I’ve got an important meeting.” A wry smile curves his lips, but he lays his head back on the arm of the couch and clenches his jaw.
I soak a clean towel through with hot water, studiously ignoring my shaking hands. And then I return to where Adam’s breathing fast and shallow on the couch, the bloodied t-shirt clenched in one fist. He lets out a breath when I perch on the couch next to him, and another one when I touch the towel to his skin. “Be quick about it,” he says, his teeth gritted.
When the worst of the blood has laid claim to the towel I can see the wound.
Small. Raw. Circular. A bullet wound. I thought my heart couldn’t beat faster, but it does. “You need a hospital. I’m not a doctor. I don’t even play one on TV. This is ridiculous.”
“No fucking hospitals.” His eyes go black with this, spearing through mine.
“You’re delirious. You’re drunk on pain and probably blood loss.”
“I’m stone-cold sober.”
I fold the sacrificed towel up and toss it toward the kitchen. “I don’t know how to treat a gunshot wound, Adam. What am I supposed to do? Put a Band-Aid on it?”
His eyes do that thing again, sliding away from my face to some distant point behind me, and a cold point of fear pricks at my gut. His lips curl in amusement. “Google it.”
“That’s not funny.”
The shake in my voice seems to sober him. “No. It’s not funny. I’ll need tweezers. And towels. Lots of them. More than that scrap you had before. All the towels you own, probably.”
“I hope this part is a joke.”