Page 72 of Vendetta

He's dead. And I killed him.

“We thought you were dead,” I hear Dom say to Devon.

“Yeah, safer that way,” Devon says.

Even my imagination wouldn't make these two have a friendly conversation, no way, no how. Not after what I found out.

“You think she'll be out much longer?” Dom asks.

A familiar, heavy sigh from Devon. “No,” he replies shortly.

I try to move, but it's no use. My head, my arms, everything feels heavy and hurts. I try again, the sticky leather squeaking under me. Dom turns around sharply. I close my eyes quickly, hoping he didn't see.

I risk opening my eyes again after a couple of minutes. He's looking straight ahead.

That's when I register that I just heard Devon's voice. I can barely contain myself from jumping up and throwing my arms around him, even if I know I can’t move. He's alive. The bastards fucking lied to me. And he came here for me, after what I did.

I make an effort to move my arm, careful not to squeak against the leather seats again. Something heavy rests on my hip, and when I bring my hand to touch it, I could squeal from happiness. It's a gun.

I guess it serves him right, after he left me to those bastards to do whatever they wanted with me. I'm about to grab for it, when a hand flies at me, squeezing my wrist. I look up, and Dom looks at me meaningfully, his eyes darting toward Devon.

A warning.

“What are you doing?” Devon asks, glancing back.

It happens in slow motion. One minute he's looking at me, the next Dom grabs for the gun and points it at him. I can see the moment Devon decides to just go for it. He wrestles with Dom for the gun, swerves off the road, the motion making my head hit the door. As the car flips over and hits the ground front-first, the airbags pop out from the dashboard, fat and white and violent,hitting them both, hard, and then there's a gunshot. I hold my breath, waiting to see what happens next.

Neither moves.

I reach out with my arm, which still feels heavy. “Devon,” I whisper, shaking him, trying to see if he's breathing.

Dom grabs my wrist, twisting my arm. There’s another gunshot from under his neck, his head blown to pieces right in front of me, spraying blood all over the car.

Devon lifts up his head, looking me over. For a minute we don't say anything, just looking at each other, the only sounds in the car radio static and our heavy breathing.

“Are you okay?” he asks me, bringing his hand to my face and wiping the wetness from it with his light touch. I wince in pain when he touches my cheek.

I can't help it; I start crying. I'm not sure if they're happy tears, or sad tears, or what they are, but I can't keep it in anymore. Everywhere I look there's blood, and Devon looks pale and tired, and like he's about to drop dead, and I feel like there's a truck flat on my chest—I place my hand over his, stopping the wiping motion he makes, and pressing it into my cheek. I close my eyes, but the sobs don't stop.

He's really here.

His hand disappears and I hear the car door open, the seat dipping next to me, and then he cups my face and leans his forehead against mine. “It's okay,” he says, kissing my lips softly, grazing his thumb down my jaw. “We're okay.”

I clamp his shirt into my fist, banging it against his chest. “You're alive.” Another sob escapes me. “They told me I fucking killed you.”

“It's okay,” he says, his voice strained. He puts his hand over my fist and flattens it, bringing it down to his heart, where I can feel it thud-thud-thudding under my palm.

I open my eyes, looking into pools of his green ones, and then I back away, looking further down, making sure he's okay. There's an angry bruise on his neck, probably from the force of the airbag, and aside from the stain on his... pajama top, he doesn't look harmed. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Devon.”

“Can you see if he has a phone on him? I—I lost mine.”

I get up and bend over the seat, trying not to look at Dom's blown-up head. My own flesh and blood, turning on me. I rummage through his jacket, his lifeless hand draped over his stomach. I pick it up and move it, bile rising up my throat. I fish out the phone from his pant pocket, and turn back to hand it to Devon. He's leaning against the seat, his eyes closed and a frown between his brows.

“Devon.”

He opens his eyes halfway, and then closes them again.

“Devon.” I shake him. “Devon?”

---