Page 60 of Ruthless King
The booming sound rips through my eardrums, and my mind goes blank.
Blood rushes to my head, deafening me to any sound.
I’ve been shot before—more than once. I know the fiery agony to expect. It hits like a crushing blow, taking even the strongest man off his feet.
I grit my teeth in anticipation of it, but as the seconds sluggishly tick by, I stay standing.
Snippets of action unfold before me, but I’m powerless to move.
Mischa jumps back into his car and drives off. Even in the brutal aftermath of uncertainty, I know I should be taking after him. Or preparing for another attack—no one takes one shot and walks away.
Unless I’m hit.
Gradually, sensation returns to my limbs. I run my hand across my chest, surprised when I feel no sputtering warmth of fresh blood. No fire.
Last time a bullet hit my collar, fracturing the bone, and I nearly blacked out from the agony.
This time…I don’t feel anything other than an emotion I hate to acknowledge, resonating in my gut—fear.
Across the lawn, a man lies sprawled in the dirt. His dark suit warns that he’s one of mine, and I dread knowing his identity. Javier? Another guard?
I can’t be sure before I catch sight of someone else racing from the other end of the property, their lips moving, eyes wide. Javier. He sprints up the front steps, weapon drawn, but his eyes aren’t on me—and whatever has his attention must be bad.
So bad the man pales, his throat cording around a shout.
Confused, I turn around…
And the next thing I know, I’m on my knees. Mischa shot me after all—I’m in a coma, hallucinating the unthinkable.
That’s the only reason to explain this.
Because what I’m seeing isn’t real. It can’t be him. Not Vin, lying on his side, a puddle of scarlet seeping from his ear. He’s too pale. Too red. Too red.
I call his name, hearing nothing but the surging pulse of my own heartbeat in response.
They say grief has stages to it, that there’s a perfect name for every emotion. While it sounds nice in theory, it’s all bullshit some doctor came up with while in his nice, neat office. Someone who never truly experienced the depths of that despair. Or known the brutal, violent kind of loss…
There are no fucking steps to follow, no pretty ways to quantify it. The shit hollows you.
There is only pain to judge the passage of time. One day, you can almost barely live with it. That’s coming to terms with it, I guess. Or what you say to stay out of the fucking shrink’s office at least.
The truth is that nothing will ever lessen it. Ever. Time merely soothes the sting, and alcohol may dull the ache, but the wound is always there, always smarting at the slightest touch. No amount of mourning ever eases it. You just linger there in the pit of that sadness, always waiting for it to consume you again—or you cling to the few people whose presence can distract from the pain.
I don’t mourn Vin.
I don’t weep and writhe in sadness. There is no point.
Throwing my head back, I just laugh. And laugh. Seeing my hands coated in his blood has me chuckling so hard I wind up clutching at my chest. Moisture spills from my eyes—an unavoidable, biological reaction. But they burn. Every fucking drop sears rivulets into my cheeks, branding me with the proof of my own goddamn weakness.
He’s dead only because I failed him.
What a goddamn riot.
I laugh harder and harder until I’m on my fucking knees, braying at nothing.
But then it sinks in. I’m not in a coma. This isn’t a hallucination. I never wake up. From the corner of my eye, I can see him, unmoving. So pale, his beautiful eyes closed, his nose—that signature Vanici nose—draining a trail of blood.
There’s no way to quantify the loss—everything I’ve worked toward dies with him.
