Page 4 of Hell and High Water

That I am next in line to lead the Sinful. That my father was one of them, and I was meant to take his place.

I recognized the gold dress she still wore from the Sinner’s Ball. Rachelle was, is, the Herald of the Sinful, the hostess of the party and who knows what else. But before I can even think of the million questions that revelation brings up, we’re interrupted…

Every joint and muscle aches, quivering as I try to stand. It’s an effort of sheer will to get me over to the chair, using the back of the cushy recliner to stay up. Moving around helps, waking my bedridden body.

My hand drifts to my side again, to that stabbing, shooting pain.

I was shot. We were shot.

The bullet went through me and into Rachelle.

Worry and panic ricochet through my body, stealing my breath as I remember the agony and the dread of watching the only family I have left die in front of me while I bled out on the pavement.

Is she even alive?

But then I remember something else, three voices, shouting my name…

Thirst overcomes any other thought as I try to make it toward the door. I need water. Something in my stomach.

Easing the door open, I note that it’s unlocked, a good sign, but I immediately close my eyes to block the blinding white of daylight coming through the railing across from the door. The flash image behind my eyelids makes me nauseous, backing off to lean on the bed once more.

“Baby steps, Hellena…” I mumble, reaching for the pitcher on the nightstand. Hopefully, it’s not drugged. Not that it matters, I guess.

Yep. These last few weeks, months, have made me full-blown paranoid.

But I suppose owing money to drug dealers and nearly getting killed by those drug dealers will kick things off toward looking over your shoulder constantly. Not to mention the weeks of working for Evan and his mysterious bosses, and the plethora of mysteries Sanctum Harbor keeps throwing at us.

The water is sweet, cold. I let my mind drift as I take several careful, controlled gulps.

Who freaking cares if it’s drugged? I’ll take the pain relief.

After several more sips and minutes sitting with my head between my knees, I manage my way back to my feet and over to the door. Just being awake for longer is clearing my head, sending my thoughts back down every path imaginable.

Mostly, at the moment, where the hell I am.

And whether that place is safe. My instinct says I’m being taken care of, but with everything that’s happened, there’s no guarantee. I need info and I need to get my bearings.

Gavin would say I need to assess my situation and take stock of my resources.

His tactical mentality is rubbing off on me.

Outside the door, I find that I'm upstairs on the second floor of a house. I can tell that much by the loft hallway with two other doors at the end of the walk and a window looking outside. All I see that way are trees, branches.

The walk to the end of the hall feels miles long.

Not that the stairs sound better, but maybe there’s food in the kitchen and I’ll be able to see outside. Worst case, I can collapse on the couch downstairs. I can just make out the living area over the banister.

Just don’t black out before you reach it.

I grasp for the banister, holding myself steady for a minute as a wave of nausea and delirium washes over me. “Enough already. Deep breaths.”

The wave passes and I feel a bit stronger, albeit clammy and sweaty from the exertion.

The old, polished wood of the railing guides me down, allowing me to pause every few steps to take in my surroundings and not puke my guts up. Every step helps me feel more awake, more in control.

Trees and more trees show through the higher windows as I descend, the ones above the curtained lower row along the far wall. If I’m in a cabin in the woods, it’s a really nice one.

Which might point to Evan…

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