Page 239 of The Night Shift
I reach, fingers grazing the gun when Theo makes this horrible, wet, gurgling sound.
And everything stops. It’s like gravity’s been reprogrammed just for me.
Suddenly, the gun in my hand doesn't matter. Camille's stupid broken body doesn't matter. Revenge doesn’t matter. My body acts before my brain can process that for the first time in my life, I’ve chosen something over my anger and my bone-deep need to destroy.
Him.
I rip away from the gun like it’s burning me. I scramble on the slick floor, blood smearing under my hands as I untie my legs and claw toward him.
The chain groans again above us.
The blade whistles past again — just inches from the back of my neck.
I wedge my good shoulder under Theo’s dead weight and shove with everything I have left, careful to not hurt his sling arm. His chair scrapes over the concrete, a sound like teeth on metal, dragging him out of the axe’s path.
My body is throbbing.
The chain groans again. The blade swings again. Misses me by a hair.
I want to throw up. Theo’s a mess. He’s bleeding really badly. Blood soaks his shirt — dark, sticky, and spreading like an oil spill. The scalpel in his gut sticks out at a wrong, obscene angle.
My wrists burn, raw and skinned, and my shoulder is just — fuck — it’s not right. Not even close. (Fractured humeral head,my brain mutters clinically.)
I flex my fingers. Theo’s chest rises in weak, shallow jerks. Each one is slower than the last. Panic claws up my throat. I untie the ropes at his wrist first, hands shaking too badly to be of much help, then untangle his legs next.
“Theo?” My voice barely scrapes out of me. I pat his cheek gently, terrified of hurting him more than I already have. “Can you hear me?”
Nothing.
Tears blur my vision.
“Theo, you bastard,” I whisper, “if you die on me, I swear I’ll fucking hunt you into the afterlife and stab you myself.”
Still nothing.
The first sob rips out of me before I can stop it. My forehead knocks against his. Too hard and too desperate — and I just...Ilose it.
Tears spill hot and blinding down my face, soaking into his skin, into his blood, intoeverything. I press my forehead harder to his andcry.
“I swear to fucking God, you arenotdying on me, you selfish bastard.”
I kiss the bridge of his nose, messy and shaking, tasting salt and blood and desperation.
“You don't get to leave. You don't get to fuckingleave me, Theo. You promised you wouldn’t.” I grab his shirt in my fists,bunching the blood-soaked fabric tight, shaking him uselessly. “Wakeup,” I demand against his skin, another broken kiss against his cheekbone. “Wake up, you fucking stubborn prick, please —”
I’m really sobbing now, gasping through clenched teeth, forehead still pressed to his like if I hold him close enough, tight enough, I can breathe some life into him.
“Come back to me.Please.I love you, please come back.”
He stays terrifyingly still.
And I realize — somewhere distant and cold and paralyzing — that if he doesn’t open his eyes soon, he never will.
The weight of it crashes into me. I’m losing him.
No.
I refuse to accept that.
