Page 177 of Desperate Actions

His hazel eyes—so familiar, so terrifyingly cold—are on me now.

Only me.

“Sammy,” I mumble and I am a sobbing mess.

“Pixie,” he murmurs, stepping over Santos’ corpse like it’s nothing more than trash on the pavement.

The knife drips blood onto the floor. His blood. Santos’ blood. Everyone’s blood.

And then his hands are on me, tearing through the binds at my wrists.

I fall forward, but of course, he is there.

He catches me, because he always will.

His arms come around me like a cage and a sanctuary all at once.

I feel his lips against my temple, his chest shuddering against mine, his heartbeat thundering.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt? Pixie, answer me.”

I can’t stop shaking.

“You saved me. I'm okay. B-but you—you've been shot!”

“It's nothing. Flesh wounds.” His voice is rough, his breath unsteady, but he doesn’t let me go. “Andrea?”

“I'm good. I'm okay,” she cries out, as Uncle Nico frees her from her restraints, his hands firm but gentle.

Then I hear him.

“Aella!”

My father.

Barreling toward us, his face twisted in rage and relief.

Sammy tenses beside me, but he doesn’t fight it.

He lets me go.

I barely register that it’s the first time my father has ever held me with fear still in his veins, his strong arms wrapping me up so tightly it almost hurts.

I let him, because I know—he almost lost me tonight.

But then he does the unthinkable.

He turns to Sammy, and he hands me back to him with a nod of respect.

“I’m taking her home,” Sammy growls, attempting to stand.

His blood is staining his shirt, his pants, and for the first time since the fight began, he wobbles.

I move under his arm, trying to hold him up.

“No! We have to go to a hospital!”

“No hospitals.” He shakes his head, teeth clenched, eyes blazing. Still not done. “I need to clean this up first, then home.”

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