“Livy …”
My name.
He said my name for the first time.
Stopping at the threshold to his bedroom, I swallowed hard. “Am I in danger?”
“Livy …”
“Y-you need a doctor, something I can’t—”
“I stitched it. Go home.” His words slurred as he surrendered to his heavy eyelids.
“Are you drunk? Did someone stab you? Is that a gunshot wound?”
“Go … the … fuck … home.” Exasperation mixed with pain and exhaustion punctuated each word.
“You’ve lost a lot of blood. I should—”
“Fucking hell!” He reached over, grabbed the empty vodka bottle, and threw it at the wall beside me.
I jumped, my hand flying to my mouth to contain my gasp as I gawked at the shattered pieces on the floor. Was he aiming for me or the wall?
Jericho whined a few times, perched next to Slade. He hadn’t asked his dog to come get me. It broke my heart.
Not for Slade. For Jericho. He was genuinely worried about his owner.
From hundreds of miles away, my dad whispered in my ear to get the hell out of there. Per my usual, I didn’t listen.
Instead, I cleaned up the glass in spite of Slade’s weak mumbling telling me to go. Eventually, he fell silent—passed out or asleep—and I peeled off the soaked gauze, taking a closer inspection of his half-assed stitched wound. It looked pretty mangled. More like a gunshot wound than a stab wound. Did he have a bullet inside his shoulder? If so … he would likely not survive long.
Who shot him and why?
“I should go,” I whispered to myself … to that overly curious part in my head that overstepped a boundary with Slade Wylder that felt like real danger.
Jericho turned in a circle on the bed before collapsing beside Slade again, resting his snout on Slade’s neck while giving me a look like he thought I could fix everything.
I couldn’t.
“He’ll be fine. I hope.” I gave Jericho a sad smile. Tearing open a new packet of gauze, I exchanged it for the bloodied ones and secured it with the tape he hadn’t used the first time. “I’ll check in on him tomorrow. Okay, buddy?” As soon as I started to leave, he followed, overtaking me on the stairs. By the time I got to the back door, Jericho had perched himself in front of it. “Scooch, Jerry. I’m leaving, and you have to stay here. He needs you, not me.” My nose wrinkled, and I lowered my voice. “He drank too much to numb the pain, and I don’t know what happened. So I don’t feel safe staying here.”
He cocked his head to the side, stirring up a new round of guilt. Of course … he would protect me. Jericho was my fiercest protector—after my dad.
“Please, scooch.” I nudged him with the toe of my shoe. He growled.
My eyes opened wider and unblinking while my jaw dropped. It wasn’t threatening like he’d planned on harming me; it was a stern warning that it was not okay for me to leave.
“Did I mention he doesn’t want me here? That he wants me to go home?”
After he refused to budge, I leaned forward and locked the door. “Fine. But you’d better not think of sleeping for one second. If I die, people will miss me, and I won’t become president. Got it?”
Still, he didn’t budge, not until I retreated to the stairs, committing to staying the night … In. The. Haunted. Firehouse!
Slipping off my shoes and my wet suit—leaving me in Lycra boy shorts and a sweatshirt—I jerked my head at Jericho. “Scooch.”
He remained sprawled out on the opposite side of the bed.
“You’re sleeping in the middle.”
No scooch. No budge. Total stubbornness.
“Shit …” I frowned, shutting off the lamp then turning it right back on. Nope. No way was I sleeping in the haunted firehouse with Slade oozing blood from a gunshot wound and with the light turned off. So I crawled up the middle of the bed and wedged myself under the covers, trapped by an eighty-pound dog on one side and a probably close to one hundred and eighty-pound man on the other side.
After a good ten minutes of resting on my side and inspecting shirtless Slade close up—his defined torso, his beautiful face, and those full lips—I had to turn toward Jericho. Perfect pooch made me smile, unlike his owner who made me think inappropriate thoughts.
My brain wouldn’t shut down for the longest time. Thoughts of who shot Slade and why he didn’t go to the hospital danced with the memories of detailed stories about Professor Dickerson and the haunted firehouse. To make things exponentially worse … Jericho decided he no longer wanted to sleep in bed with us.
Traitor …
He hopped out of bed and took off downstairs.
“Jerry!” I whisper-yelled when he disappeared around the corner.
After I cursed him under my breath, I decided that him being on the frontline of defense downstairs was the best idea. Putting more than two inches between us seemed like another fantastic idea, so I moved into the spot Jericho abandoned.
I didn’t anticipate the noises. So many strange noises that kept me from falling asleep. Ghosts … it had to be ghosts. That girl. It was her ghost. Maybe she was trying to warn me. I was next. If I fell asleep, it seemed like a real possibility that I could wake up in the dungeon or not wake up at all.
I couldn’t sleep.
I couldn’t breathe.
I tossed and turned.
And it was cold as fuck in the house. He must have had the thermostat set to sixty or cooler.
Eventually … I’m not even sure when it happened … I fell asleep.
Chapter Eight
Wylder
The. Fuck?
Arms. Legs. Hair. Heat.
I woke in the early morning hours to intense pain on one side from the unexpected altercation the previous evening and her attached to my other side.
Her bare leg tangled in the sheets and draped over my jean-clad leg. Her hand splayed out on my bare chest. Her warm breath in the crook of my neck. Her wavy, golden blond hair … everywhere.
She was everywhere.
Grimacing, I attempted to move, hoping to slide out of bed and get a safe distance from her.
“Five minutes …” she mumbled, rolling off me and curling onto her other side. “Just … five more—” The rest of her words blended into a fading mumble.
Then.
She jerked.
Her body went ridged and completely still for several seconds before she slowly glanced over her shoulder at me. “Oh my god …” she whispered, eyes making a slow inspection of me before she flew out of the bed, tripping a bit as she untangled herself from the sheets and straightened her sweatshirt.
I gave her nothing. Not a blink or tiny twitch of my lips.
“You … he …” She pointed toward the door. “Jerry came to—”
“Jericho,” I corrected her with a slight narrowing of my eyes. His name was Jericho not Jerry.
With her own tiny squint, she rubbed her lips together and dipped her chin into a tiny nod. “Jericho was barking at my door last night when I arrived home. Clearly concerned about you and your…” her head nodded toward my shoulder “…gunshot wound. I tried to leave, but he wouldn’t let me, so I stayed, but then he—”