Page 2 of Knot Made to Break: Part Two

The gunshotsstill echoed in my ears, deafening blasts that seemed to have stolen all the other sounds from the world. Vincent’s body lay sprawled on the polished hardwood floor, blood spreading beneath him in a dark, shining pool. I stood frozen, the gun still clutched in my trembling hand, my finger curled around the trigger as if it had fused there. The acrid smell of gunpowder burned my nostrils, mingling with the metallic scent of blood that grew stronger with each shallow breath I took. I’d expected to feel pain, to feel my own life draining away from the bullet Vincent had fired. Instead, I stood unharmed while he stared at the ceiling with unseeing eyes, his face locked in an expression of permanent surprise.

Time seemed to stretch and distort around me. Had it been seconds or minutes since I’d pulled the trigger? My brain struggled to process what had happened. Vincent had aimed at me, I was certain of it. I’d seen the hatred in his eyes, the determination in the set of his jaw as he’d leveled the gun at mychest. I’d braced myself for the impact, for the tearing of flesh and the darkness that would follow.

But his bullet had missed me completely.

My gaze shifted to the wall behind where I stood, to the small, jagged hole now marring the pristine surface. A family photo hung crooked from the impact, its glass fractured across Dimitri’s smiling face. My entire body went cold from how close I’d come to dying. To death.

A whine, quiet yet high-pitched, sounded from the other room, piercing through my shock.

“Tommas,” I whispered, the name barely audible even to my own ears.

My gun clattered to the floor as horror surged through me, breaking the paralysis that had held me in place. I lurched forward, my sock-covered feet slipping on the polished hardwood as I rounded the corner toward the living room. My heart hammered against my ribs; each beat a desperate prayer—please, please, please. I need him to be okay. For him to be alive.

Oh, God.

My prayers died the moment I entered the living room.

Tommas lay sprawled across the expensive rug, one arm flung out to his side, the other draped across his abdomen, where dark crimson bloomed through his shirt. Beretta, who was also injured and bleeding from his leg, laid beside him, his muscular head propped on his owner’s chest. The dog’s anxiety was palpable, whining as he nudged at Tommy’s chin with his snout.

“No, no, no,” I chanted, the words spilling from my lips in an endless stream as I dropped to my knees beside them.

Blood soaked into my leggings, warm and wet and tacky, but I barely noticed. My hands hovered uselessly over my mate for a moment, trembling so violently I could barely control them asI assessed the damage. Then instinct took over, and I pressed them firmly against the wound in his abdomen.

Warm blood gushed between my fingers, so much of it that my stomach lurched. Tommas groaned at the pressure, the sound weak but alive. His eyelids fluttered, revealing pain-glazed green eyes that struggled to focus on my face.

“Tommy, stay with me,” I pleaded, voice breaking over the words. “Please, baby, stay with me. Don’t you dare leave me.”

Tears burned hot tracks down my cheeks, dropping onto his chest where they mingled with his blood. I pressed harder against the wound, desperately trying to stem the flow of life that spilled freely. His blood was so warm against my palms. And yet his skin was clammy. Chilled.

No! Oh God. He’s dying.

I had to do something. Had to act.

Ineededto call 911, but I was terrified to let go long enough to get my phone.

Beretta whined again, more insistently this time, but I couldn’t tear my attention from Tommas’ features, from the blue tinge that had begun to color his lips.

“Tommy, look at me,” I begged, as his lids drifted closed again. “No! Open your eyes. Please.”

Hearing my raw desperation, his lashes fluttered open once more, gaze finding mine. The corners of his mouth twitched in what might have been an attempt at his usual playful smile, but it only made my heart fracture further.

“That’s it,” I encouraged, forcing steadiness into my voice despite the terror clawing up my throat. “Stay with me. Help is coming. You’re going to be fine.”

I wasn’t sure if the words were for him or for me. Beneath my hands, his chest rose and fell in shallow, irregular breaths. His usually golden skin had taken on a frightening pallor, making the freckles across his nose seem starker.

“K-Kit,” he whispered, the single syllable followed by a wet cough that brought a bubble of blood to the corner of his mouth.

“Shh, don’t try to talk.” One blood-covered hand left the wound long enough to stroke his face, smearing crimson across his cheek as I tried to soothe him. “Just focus on breathing, okay? In and out. Stay with me.”

Using my free hand, I maneuvered my shirt off, over my head and down my arm, leaving only a sports bra to keep me modest. Balling the fabric against the bullet hole that had torn through his stomach, I pressed down hard, trying to slow how fast he was bleeding out. The pressure drew another pained groan from him.

“I’m sorry,” I choked out. “I know it hurts, but I have to stop the bleeding.”

A growing sense of helplessness threatened to overwhelm me as the cotton slowly changed from white to red.

Beretta’s low growl finally pulled my attention. His ears perked forward, dark eyes shifting between me and something behind me. The subtle sound of footsteps registered in my peripheral awareness. The Doberman shifted his position, struggling to stand, limping to place himself protectively between us and whoever had entered the penthouse.

I felt the weight of someone’s gaze on my back, and dread curled through me as I realized I’d left my gun behind.

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