Page 12 of The Tower

Was it this evening? Or is it already the next day? I have no way of knowing. There's no window in this room, just four white walls that reflect the cold ceiling light all too brightly. A faint beeping sound to my right plays the beat of my heart. It's the only noise echoing through the room.

He's sitting to my left, leaning back in his chair with his arms resting on the armrests. His uniform is soaked in blood, adding a gruesome effect to his handsome ruggedness. I moan at the sight, realizing that it's most likely not his own blood but mine, and the mere sight of it makes me sick.

I tear my eyes away from his blood-drenched shirt, seeking his ominous hazel gaze instead.

"Who are you?"

My voice is hoarse, and my throat scratches with every syllable, but I manage to phrase my question nevertheless.

For a moment, he just looks at me, showing no intention of answering. He narrows his eyes, surveying me as if he's seeing me for the very first time and trying to make sense of the person in front of him.

His lips move as if he's trying to get a taste of the right words to respond to me. But instead of giving me a much-needed explanation, he retorts with a question himself. "How are you feeling?"

"You shot me," I reply. "And you killed my aunt. How do you think I'm feeling?"

"I didn't kill your aunt," he insists. "Someone else did."

My heart aches at his words. It's not news to me. I saw her drop to the floor right in front of my eyes. I saw the life vanish from her body at that very moment. I saw all of it. Yet hearing his confirmation of my aunt's death still stabs at my core.

"Why?" I utter, tears forcing their way down my cheeks.

His eyes widen in concern, showing that as much of a badass as he might be, he's still uncomfortable with a woman's tears. He presses his lips together, once again denying me the answer I so desperately seek.

"Why did you take me with you?" I continue my questioning, hoping he'll find it within himself to answer at least one of my many questions eventually. "Why didn't you just leave me there?"

This time, he surprises me by giving a clear and definite response right away.

"Because you're an Abbott," he says, "I couldn't leave you there."

I grimace in confusion. "What?"

He shakes his head and lets out an exasperated sigh.

"I don't fucking know," he admits, speaking louder than before. Exhaustion laces every word, showing that I'm not the only one who has had a rough night—to say the least.

He looks at me, again fixating me with that tense glare from earlier.

"Clyde Abbott is your uncle?" he asks.

I nod weakly.

"Shit," he exclaims, shaking his head. "So you reallyarean Abbott."

"Yes, I fucking am an Abbott," I hiss at him. "But if you kidnapped me because you think I'm a lucrative bait, I'll have to disappoint you. No one's going to pay for my release."

He huffs, casting me a dark smirk. "No shit."

I press my lips together, trying to control the overwhelming urge to cry again.

"My entire family is dead." I give voice to the dark thought that provokes a new set of tears.

"Your uncle is alive," he objects.

Now, I'm the one huffing at him. "Maybe. But you saw what he did."

Our eyes meet, latching onto each other as neither one of us dares to speak the horrible truth. That my uncle pushed me in front of him and used me as a shield to save himself when this man was chasing him with a gun. This handsome but cruel man whose bullet hit me instead of the man he targeted, and who took care of me afterward, who took me away in the most spectacular way, and who made sure that my wounds were treated and my pain was dulled with some very effective and oddly pleasing medication.

"I'm sorry," the man says, surprising me. "I'm sorry for what happened to you tonight."

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