Page 3 of The Silencer

And then the next kick lands on my hands and everything goes black.

I wake up to the sound of gunfire and shouts. My world is spinning, tilting. Everything smells. Smoke, sweat, blood.

And then I’m in strong, capable arms, cradled to a chest that feels familiar, a scent enveloping my senses as I’m carried out of my own personal hell. I come and go from consciousness, in fits, my eyelids fluttering open only to shut again.

Everything hurts.

Pain.

Aches.

I don’t want to wake up if this is what waking feels like.

“Tatum,” a soft voice says in my ear, and I sigh, knowing who it is.

Angel. My angel who saved me.

“Tatum,” the voice says, gruffer. Angry.

Wait, no. Not Angel. It’s Anthony.

Yes, him. That’s who’s here, cradling me in his lap as we’re driven away from the shady bar. I feel the bumps in the road as I nuzzle into him, my brain seeping in and out of awareness.

“You’re okay. You’re going to be okay,” the voice reassures me.

I don’t know if I will. I don’t know…

I pass out once more, only to wake up in a bedroom, cool sheets against my skin. For a moment, I can’t figure out where I am, but slowly my brain pieces it together, snapshots and sounds, smells that are wholly familiar.

I’m in his house. Anthony’s house.

With him.

A beeping resonates through the room, and I realize that I’m hooked up to a monitor, an IV in my arm.

Fuck, this is worse than I thought.

Those assholes.

I groan and try to move, but pain slices up my side, and I gasp.

I don’t know why I’m surprised at the sensation. This is what it always feels like, throbbing, aching pain that seeps into your bones and refuses to budge. I’ve been beat up a few times in the past, by school bullies who didn’t like how I acted or how I dressed. Guys who were scared of me, of how different I am. But it’s never been this bad.

This was a beating with the intent to kill.

Another groan, and I wince at the pain lancing through my jaw.

“Oh, fuck me,” I whisper as my eyelids flicker open.

It’s blurry for a second before I see the outline of someone in the shadows. As my vision clears, I see that it’s him. Anthony. He’s sitting in a wingback chair, his legs spread out before him. He’s dressed like he always is—black slacks, a white button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up his forearms. Only this time, even with the shadows hiding most of him from me, I can see that he’s a little more rumpled than normal.

His hair is mussed, the top buttons of his shirt loose, exposing some of his tattooed chest to me, and he’s not wearing any shoes.

He’s bare-footed.

He looks tired, but he’s still way hotter than any middle-aged man has any right to be.

A clink brings my gaze down to a glass in his hand. He’s drinking something, something that almost glows in the dim lamplight.

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