“Joel did this?”
Liesel nods.
“Did he hurt you anywhere else?”
Please, don’t tell me he raped you and I didn’t realize.
“No, you got here before he could do worse.”
I narrow my gaze; my heart roars in my chest full of a thousand exploding angry cannons. I didn’t get here in time. He should have never touched her. Never tied her up. Never shot her.
I regret killing the bastard now—he deserved worse than death.
“Hold this,” I say, handing Liesel the expensive bottle of scotch.
She leaves her bottle in the sand and takes mine in her arms, cradling it against her chest.
Then, I scoop her up in my arms, lifting her as gently as I can. She hisses when I first touch her, but something in my eyes must convince her to not fight me.
I carry her back into the house and up to my bedroom before realizing that putting her back in the bed where she was tied up and almost raped probably isn’t the best idea.
“It’s okay,” Liesel says when I start to turn back.
“You sure?”
She nods.
I set her gently on the edge of the bed, and then I run to the bathroom, popping open a panel in the wall where I keep my emergency supplies. I grab the first aid kit. It’s more like a wound healer kit, though. The only thing the kit is good for is dealing with bullet or knife wounds.
I carry the bag out and set it on the bed. Then I take the scotch bottle from her and set it on the nightstand. My eyes don’t leave her now. I can’t stop looking at her.
“Do you want me to call a doctor or do you want—”
“You—I want you to do it.”
I nod.
“Painkillers or more scotch?”
The corner of her mouth lifts at that. “What do you think?”
I smile lightly and grab the bottle of scotch from the nightstand. It’s the most expensive bottle in the house, over $30K. This isn’t exactly the situation I imagined using it on. She’s not going to take the time to savor the thick peat and sherry cask finish.
But right now, I’d give Liesel the world if I could.
I pop the bottle open and take a quick sip myself to steady my nerves before I hand it to her. She takes it, but I realize now it’s a mistake. The bottle is heavy and hard to lift with her injured shoulder.
I hold the base and help lift it to her lips. I keep holding it until she gets enough down to ease her pain.
When I remove the bottle and set it back on the nightstand, she lifts an eyebrow. “I may already be drunk, but that was the best damn scotch I’ve ever tasted.”
I smirk. “Don’t get used to it. That’s a thirty thousand dollar bottle.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “If you’re paying, I could definitely get used to it.”
I shake my head and then move closer to the bed.
“I’m going to sit behind you so I can get the bullet out, okay?”
She nods.
I’ve removed plenty of bullets before—out of my buddies, my coworkers, my employees, but never out of Liesel.
I gather my supplies, trying to think of her like any other person, but as I hold the tweezers up to her back, I hesitate.
“Oh, don’t puss out on me now. If you can’t pull a bullet out of my back, how am I supposed to believe that you’re going to kill me?” Liesel teases.
But I hear the underlying fear. She knows there is a difference between hurting and killing her. When you kill someone, you don’t have to deal with their pain and agony. Pulling this out is going to hurt like a motherfucker. I know, I have scars all over my body to prove it.
“Hold still. Scream, yell, cry if you have to, just don’t move, understand?”
“Yes,” she hisses.
I wish I could hold her hand as I do this. Not that that really helps, but at least I’d feel like I was doing something for her.
I push the tweezers in, digging for the bullet.
She doesn’t move.
She doesn’t hiss.
Scream.
Cry.
Did she pass out from the pain? Die of a sudden heart attack?
No, she’s still breathing.
“Will you hurry up? This isn’t exactly enjoyable for me, you know?”
I laugh. “Deep breath, Liesel.”
And then I yank the bullet out on her exhale.
I plop the bullet and tweezers into a plastic bag and then apply gauze to her shoulder to stop the bleeding.
“Hard part’s over.”
“Really? I imagine the stitches aren’t a cakewalk.”
“Staples are faster.”
“Let’s go with the staples then,” Liesel says, flashing me a grin over her shoulder.
I grab the bottle of scotch and hold it up to her lips. “Take one more sip.”
She grips the bottle with her good arm and starts drinking while I apply the three quick staples into her back. Then I secure a gauze bandage to the wound and wipe the blood from her back and arm.
“All done,” I say.
She nods and rests the bottle between her legs on the bed.
I gather up the supplies, put them back in the bag, and carry them into the bathroom, where I catch a glance of myself in the mirror.
I’m a monster.
She deserves better.
When I walk back into the bedroom, I lock eyes with her.
Liesel—the badass motherfucker.
My huntress.
My liar.
Mine.
I won’t fail you again.
And to prove it, I say two little words I never thought I’d say to her.
“I’m sorry.”
29
Liesel
Langston apologized.
I don’t know what to do with that.
“Need anything else? Can I get you more painkillers? Food? Anything?” Langston asks.
I’m still sitting on the edge of the bed, and he’s standing just inside the room looking like someone stole his puppy, and he got into a fistfight.
“Ice,” I answer.
He nods and then jogs out of the room.
It gives me a moment, but there is too much to process.
My shoulder throbs, although not as painfully as before. The alcohol is numbing the most intense suffering.
It did hurt like hell when he dug the bullet out, though. I refused to show weakness, especially in front of Langston, my killer.
Is he still going to kill me?
He hesitated to pull the bullet out. It was as difficult for him as it was for me.
A lot can change in a year which, give or take a few weeks, is what I have left. That’s the timeline he gave me.
One year.
I can get him to change his mind in a year. Get him to warm to me again like when we were kids. Get him to feel things so he can’t fathom killing me.
Langston is back.
“Do you want to move to another bedroom?” he asks. It’s clear he’s worried that I’ll have nightmares about being tied up and almost raped if we stay in here.
I shake my head. “That’s not how my nightmares work.”
He enters, carrying a bag of ice and a bowl of something with two spoons sticking out.
“Climb under the covers and sit back in the bed,” he orders.
I do.
He plops the bowl down in my lap and then puts the bag of ice on my shoulder. Finally, he climbs into the bed next to me. He sits on top of the covers, while I sit under.