Page 117 of Beautifully Wounded

“You won’t mind if we search every room for her, just in case.”

Gasping, I stumble back from the window, my heart in my throat as panic washes over me.

Ringo.

Help.

Please come back.

Dammit Abbey. He’s not here. Only you.

You have to fight for yourself!

Feeling the same desperation I did the night my parents locked me in my room and drugged me, a wildness, untamed and raw, ripples through my veins.

I am the protector now.

I am the only one that can stop this.

Hurrying forward, I pull Ringo’s drawer open, rummaging through it, only to find his sex toy.

Ugh.

I hurry to the wardrobe, opening the drawers there, and freeze when I find a gun under a pair of jeans in the second drawer.

Panting from fear and adrenalin, I pick it up in my trembling hand.

It’s heavier than I imagined. The metal cool against my skin. It almost feels surreal to hold it. I’ve never seen one in real life until Ringo came into my life, let alone held one. What with Australia’s tough gun laws, I would’ve thought it would be harder to possess one, yet Ringo left with a gun and has this one hidden in his room.

I have no idea how to work it, but when I hear yelling outside, a small cry lurches from my throat and I rush into the bathroom, closing myself in.

This is it.

I’m going to die today.

Glancing to the side, I see my reflection in the mirror. My brown eyes are wide. Wild looking. Like a crazy woman, and perhaps I am.

My lower lip wobbles and I accept my fate.

“I tried,” I whisper as tears fall over, my shoulders slumping before my chin hits my chest in defeat. “I really did try. But I can’t go back to them. I can’t let that happen. This is the only way.”

Glancing at the bath, I decide that’s where it’ll happen, and I move forward to climb in.

26

We are the second van to arrive at warehouse four. Van five, the van we couldn’t communicate with, is still here, the doors thrown open and no one in sight.

The screech of tyres from the Marx brothers’ two Range Rovers are loud as they come to a halt behind our van, and as we all pile out, Mex steps out from the warehouse entrance, the look on his face grave.

“What is it?” I snap, storming towards him, taking in his slumped shoulders and pallor of his skin which is pale compared to his normally golden tone.

Mex warily glances at me before his gaze travels over my shoulder to the thundering feet coming up behind me.

“Mex. Tell me,” I order, and he flinches, his dark eyes returning to mine.

“They’re all dead.”

My brows shoot up. “All four?”

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