Page 25 of Wicked Proposal
I don’t waste one goddamn second.
I grab Mia and throw her to the floor under me.
She lets out a scream. I can feel the shock in her body, her wide eyes staring up at me without understanding. “Yul?—?”
“Stay down!” I bark. “Keep your head low.”
For once, she doesn’t argue.
Around us, the other guests are screaming, running every which way. In their panic, they end up straight in the line of fire.
I watch their bodies drop like flies, one after the other, blood spraying mercilessly on the toppled flower arrangements.
The lilies, once white, turn red within seconds.
When I realize Mia is staring at the scene, too, I pull her head in the crook of my arm. “Close your eyes,” I growl. “Don’t look.”
She gives a quick nod. I can feel her bury her face against me, like I’m the only safe place she’s ever known.
My protective instincts surge, stronger than before. Stronger than ever.
I tuck her close and wait for the rain to pass.
Memories are crowding my mind, pushing against the walls of my skull, but I won’t let them. No matter how insistently they demand my attention, I’m not going to give it.
Right now, I need to stay lucid. Need to keep my focus no matter what.
The past has already happened.
Bullets, flying in through the windows. A shower of broken glass and gunmetal. The smell of gunpowder, so strong I can’t breathe.
Blood. Blood. So much blood.
I can hear them scream—my parents, my sister, my family. The only family I’ve ever known.
And Kira, too, dropping like a stone at my side.
I plant my nails into my arm, force myself to snap out of the unwanted memory. The pain grounds me, turns my focus razor-sharp again.
Then the bullets stop.
It’s my chance. The only chance I might get.
“Let’s go.”
Mia stumbles after me. Pulling her upright takes longer than I’d like, but after that, it’s only a matter of keeping her steady and running. Her body weighs nothing compared to mine.
We rush past the corpse of a bridesmaid and head for the garden.
As we make our way through the grass, Mia doesn’t say anything. Her feet are uncertain but quick, tripping along like a newborn fawn. My arm is around her waist, and her face—tear-stained, makeup-streaked, the spaces between her freckles spattered red with blood—is still tucked into my side.
I hear her exhale, soft and shaky. As if she thinks we’ve made it past the worst.
She has no idea thatthis—getting away, getting out alive—is the most dangerous part.
Whoever opened fire on us won’t want us to live to tell the tale.
“Wait.”
