Page 115 of The Silencer

It’s then that I see it. A wound on Teddy’s shoulder, blood gushing from it and down his shirt.

So much. There’s so much.

I nearly pass out, not because of the blood but because it’s him. My friend is hurt because of me.

“How did that happen?” I gasp, my lungs hyperventilating. “How did it—there was armor!”

I let out a sob as Anthony hands me over to someone I don’t recognize. He needs to get me out of the way. I’m just a distraction. Unfamiliar hands go around me as Anthony orders them to take me to his room. I don’t want to go. I want to stay, but I’m nearly carried up the porch stairs, my body wracked with sobs, my vision whiting out.

If he dies, I will never forgive myself. I’ll never be the same.

I blink my eyes open and see Anthony watching me go, his hands streaked with blood.

And all I see there is hate.

He despises me.

I lay on the bed, my eyes open, seeing nothing. I can hear the movement downstairs as tears slip down my cheeks to the sheets below me. If only Angel were here to reassure me in the way only he can, but he’s not. He’s gone. So far away.

I sniffle loudly and stare at the door. I want someone to tell me that Teddy’s okay. I want to go and see him, to give him a hug and whisper my apology in his ear.

But no one comes.

And I’m left here waiting.

Anthony appears sometime in the night, his hands red from blood, his shirt soaked in it. He looks worn, tired.

“He’s in surgery now” he says, and I sit up quickly, nearly passing out from relief.

“Can I see him?”

He shakes his head. “When he’s out of surgery we can. Let’s shower first.”

I shake my head, my eyes leaking anew. I thought I was done crying, but apparently I’m not.

“You hate me.”

Anthony freezes and then runs a hand down his face. “Hate is the opposite of what I feel for you.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means I want you in the shower.”

I nod and push myself up on wobbly legs, my mouth dry, my cheeks wet. I swipe at them and follow Anthony into the bathroom. He turns the shower on and starts to strip. And for the first time, my cock only hardens halfway. It could be the drinks, but I think it’s the guilt. The sorrow etched into my bones.

I don’t know how Anthony will ever forgive me.

“Come on,” he says as he helps me undress, his hands gentle as he peels me from my clothes and helps me step under the water. I don’t close my eyes, just look at him as the water drips down my face. My hands run up his forearms and onto his shoulders, touching him.

He’s alive. He’s here with me.

He reaches over and grabs the shampoo, working it into my hair, his eyes intent on mine.

“It’s not your fault. Not entirely,” he finally says, and I let out a choked sob.

“It is.”

“It’s Luca’s…”

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