Page 17 of Saved By The King's Gamma

“You may feel a little groggy; don’t fight it,” she says, staring at me before glancing at the hand she had placed a key in, and the doctor clears his throat.

“Alana, bed four needs changing again. Mr. Masters wet himself again,” he groans.

“Yes, right away, Doc, just need to change out her bag on the drip,” she says, and he nods, walking out once more.

This time, when he leaves, he doesn’t return. Alana rushes over to me and starts unplugging the machines attached to me. I wait for the beep, only to peer at the monitor and see that she has switched it off.

“I found a spare key in doc’s office. You have two hours to run east,” she whispers.

“Why are you helping me?”

“My sister, Blaire, told me about you; now, don’t waste any time; he will feel you once you get too far away,” she says before glancing over her shoulder.

Alana pulls a piece of paper from her cleavage and tucks it under my bottom. “I got your friend’s number. Blaire gave it to me. She stole it from his phone and sent it to me. He then killed her for touching his phone, but I wrote it down. You must have been worth dying for, or she wouldn’t have sent it. Blaire wanted to call whoever it was. She never said who in the message. I would give you a phone to call for help, but all calls are monitored and listened to. East there is a town there, you can call from there. You try before you leave the town limits, and he will know about it.”

“What about you?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer; she just rushes over to the window and opens it before running out, closing the door behind her. I swallow, pulling the paper out with a number scribbled on it. Waiting a few minutes to make sure no one is coming in, I use the key to undo the handcuff. I rub my wrist before forcing myself off the bed.

My legs collapse under me when they touch the floor, and I clench my teeth to stop from screaming. Pain ravages me from my injuries and Kade’s infidelity, but I force myself up and over to the plastic bag sitting on the chair that Kade brought with him.

Opening it, I find a man’s shirt and some jeans. I swallow when I realize they must be Cassandra’s jeans. I glance over my shoulder at the door, but no one seems to be in the hall. Pulling my hospital gown off, I put a shirt and pair of jeans on.

My stitches tug painfully. Sweat coats me with so much effort. Creeping to the window, I try to figure out where the east is. She could have pointed that out, or I should have asked. My skin burns as the jeans rub my mauled leg, and I struggle to lift it over the windowsill. Breathing harshly, I pull the other over before sitting on the ledge.

After a few seconds, I brace myself for the pain and jump. It is only about a two-meter drop, but it feels like I had jumped from a lot higher when I hit the ground. Pain rattles through me as I land on my bad leg. Choking on a sob, I fight the urge to pass out as I rise to my feet, using the wall for support.

I see no one around and take off running as fast as my legs allow. My legs are killing with each movement and the bad one dragging behind me, but I still bite down on the instinct to stop and push on. The pain will not stop me. Ivy will come for me. I know she will come; I just need to get to that town.

10

For two days, I listen to his screams until they finally cut out. Liam, his face contorted with a mixture of disappointment and frustration, lets out a deep sigh and pouts, his words dripping with sadistic delight, “Pussy! I wanted to feed him his own bowels first.” His eyes narrow as he gazes down at Doyle’s limbless body.

“Perhaps you should have considered the consequences before you heartlessly ripped out his beating organ.” I point accusingly at Liam’s hand, still clutching Doyle’s lifeless heart. A flicker of realization crosses his face as he glances down at the heart in his hand.

“Oh, yeah, that would have done it,” he says, tossing it over his shoulder.

My skin itches from all the blood caked on it.

The thick, congealed substance clung to me like a grotesque second skin. Thick like gravy.

Surprisingly, he had endured far longer than I had anticipated. If it weren’t for the blood bags Liam had procured, he would have perished long ago when we mercilessly severed his arms. As if possessed by a demented euphoria, Liam whistles gleefully at the sound of the bell ringing—a signal that someone has arrived.

“Ah, customers!” he exclaims with perverse excitement. “I’ve missed my true calling, I must admit. I reckon my steaks look pretty good. Wonder if they want to try my marinated Doyle steaks or the Doyle sausage,” Liam says, excitedly taking the tray he had been placing his were-steaks on.

He had taken his role as a butcher to an entirely new level. I couldn’t help but chuckle at his twisted dedication as he snatches the tray, rushing eagerly toward the front of the store.

Suddenly, a shrill scream pierces the air, followed by the jingling of bells as a frightened woman flees from the premises. Liam’s disappointment is palpable as he calls out to her, his voice tinged with a hint of desperation, “But it’s a delicacy! I marinated him myself for twelve agonizing hours!” Shaking my head at his deluded persistence, I peel off my blood-soaked rubber apron and hang it on the hook beside the freezer door.

Liam comes in with his tray in hand, looking rather upset that the woman, whoever she was, didn’t want to try his Doyle steaks.

“Wasted all that time marinating those,” he says, tossing the tray on the counter. He washes his knives and places them in his satchel. Grabbing the soap, I scrub my hands clean when Liam growls. I peer over my shoulder to see him glaring down at Doyle’s lifeless form.

“Bloody bastard, look what you did! You owe me a new apron. You better hope I can wash this out,” he snarls, taking off his apron. I raise an eyebrow at him. The man is absolutely bonkers.

“What? He got his filthy blood on it. Look at this,” he says, trying to clean his apron in cold water. “He turned it pink. I’ll just say it is salmon. I can pull off salmon, right?” Liam growls, scrubbing the apron that he has come to love.

“I’d like to see someone tell you that you can’t,” I laugh before staring at my jeans. Not even the apron could save them. I sigh, walking out through the shop to the car and retrieving the bag from the trunk. I always bring spare clothes. The town square is pretty quiet as I finally get outside. There are plenty of stares, but no one dares say anything. I am kind of waiting for them to break out in a dance, like a flash mob, with the way the noise has stopped abruptly, everyone frozen.

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