Page 3 of Knot Like Other Girls

He bolts.

One second he's on his knee in front of me, the next he's shoving past his friends, his perfectly coiffed hair a blur as he disappears into the chaos.

My legs move before my brain can catch up. I duck behind an overturned table, my heart threatening to burst out of my chest.The sequins on my dress catch on the rough wood, but I barely notice the sting as they tear away from the fabric.

From my hiding spot, I scan the terrace. Most of the guests have fled, leaving behind a wasteland of broken glass and abandoned phones. The security team is nowhere to be seen—probably chasing after Braxley.

That's when I see him.

A figure dressed all in black, standing at the edge of the terrace. Hoodie, sunglasses, balaclava covering the lower half of his face. He's holding something—a gun, I realize with a jolt of terror.

Our eyes meet across the debris-strewn terrace. I brace myself, expecting him to raise the weapon, to finish whatever he started.

Instead, he speaks.

"Some alpha you've got there, miss."

His voice is muffled by the mask, but I catch a hint of... amusement? Before I can respond, he turns and melts into the shadows, leaving me alone with the sound of distant sirens and my own ragged breathing.

I stay frozen for what feels like hours but is probably only a few minutes. When I'm sure the shooter is gone, I force myself to move. My legs are shaky, and I nearly trip over my ridiculous heels as I pick my way through the wreckage.

"Braxley?" I call out, my voice hoarse. "Braxley, where are you?"

A whimper answers me, coming from behind the bar. I round the corner and find him curled up in a ball, cradling his face in his hands.

"Oh my God, Braxley, are you okay?" I kneel beside him, my hands hovering uncertainly. I'm not sure if I should touch him, if he's badly hurt.

He looks up at me, and I have to bite back a hysterical laugh. There's a small cut on his eyebrow, barely more than a scratch. A trickle of blood runs down the side of his face, but it's already starting to congeal.

"Bella!" he wails, grabbing my arm. "It's awful! I'm hideous!"

I blink, not sure I've heard him right. "What?"

"My face!" He gestures wildly at the cut. "It's ruined! How am I supposed to do my skincare routine video tomorrow? I can't go on camera like this!"

For a moment, I just stare at him. We were just shot at. People could be hurt. Hell, we could have died. And he's worried about his skincare video?

Before I can say anything, police officers and paramedics flood the terrace. Braxley spots them and starts waving his arms frantically.

"Over here! I need medical attention immediately!"

A paramedic jogs over, her face serious as she kneels beside us. "Sir, are you injured?"

Braxley nods dramatically. "It's my face. I think I might need plastic surgery."

The paramedic's expression doesn't change as she examines the cut. "It's very minor, sir. We can clean it up here?—"

"No!" Braxley shouts, making both the paramedic and me jump. "I need to go to the hospital. Now!"

The paramedic looks like she wants to argue, but Braxley is already struggling to his feet. "I demand to be taken to the best hospital on this godforsaken island. And I want a private room. With silk sheets!"

I watch in disbelief as Braxley is loaded into an ambulance, still ranting about his "disfigurement" and the need for immediate cosmetic intervention. The paramedic catches my eye and gives me a look that's equal parts sympathy and exasperation.

"Miss? Will you be riding with him?"

I want to say no. I want to stay here, talk to the police, try to make sense of what just happened. But I know my role in this circus.

"Yes," I say, climbing into the ambulance. "I'll go with him."

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