Page 73 of Deny Me
Oh God. The smallest flash of metal appeared between Hugh’s legs, and the urge to laugh hit Charlotte out of the blue, the jerk of holding it back sending pain piercing through her side. Elliot had a knife; that’s why her hand was down between her and Hugh. How could she hold Sophia and Hugh still? By threatening the only thing the man probably valued more than the money he wanted to earn.
Cold stung her cheek. Charlotte blinked, realizing she wasn’t on her knees anymore. She was lying on the cold floor. How had she gotten here? Where was King?
Elliot was still talking. “The question is, Hugh”—Elliot twisted her arm again, and Hugh cried out—“do you want to walk out of here and into a cop car intact, or do you want to visit your baby-selling buddies without your balls?” She looked thoughtful. “Then again, maybe your balls could stay behind either way. Prison might be easier to navigate without them. Your dick too. Kinda eliminates the question of where you’ll fit in the pecking order, right? Giver or receiver.” Another twist. “Definitely receiver, I’m thinking.”
Hugh’s face was sickly white. “Please don’t.”
“No?” Elliot’s grin took a disappointed turn. “You know how to ruin all a girl’s fun.” Her voice hardened. “Drop the gun.”
The thick clatter of metal on tile reached Charlotte as her eyes closed.
“Now the baby—hand her to the nice nurse there.”
Charlotte heard footsteps, then the shushing of the nurse. Sophia cried louder.
More steps rushing toward them. Some stopped nearby; others went farther, to the elevators. Hugh cried out, but Charlotte couldn’t see why—her eyes weren’t working, but she wasn’t sure why. Her ears were managing somehow, because she heard the crack of a fist impacting a face, a sound she was now personally familiar with, then Elliot whining.
“Hey!”
“Figured it was someone else’s turn to have some fun for a change.” Saint. Had he punched Hugh?
Good.
“Charlotte?”
She lifted eyelids that weighed ten pounds at the sound of King’s voice. His face hovered over hers, which told her she was on her back. When had that happened?
“King?” His face was too pale. Was he hurt? “You…okay?”
Something pressed against her side, and white-hot pain choked a gasp out of her. “Stop!”
“Gotta keep pressure on it, angel,” King panted above her.
“On what?”
“Hugh shot you.”
He had, hadn’t he? Bastard. “Wes.” Tears welled in her eyes and slid down into her hair. “He killed Wes.”
King bent closer, the side of his face coming to rest against the side of hers. “I know, angel. I’m sorry,” he choked out. “So sorry.”
“Not”—she groaned as pain pounded through her—“your fault.”
“I love you,” King rasped in her ear. “I never stopped loving you, and I never will.” His weight became heavier on her. “I’ll spend the rest of my life making up to you for all those years apart, so you better stick around for that, you got me?”
“Not going anywhere.” The blackness closing in on her might be saying otherwise, but Charlotte fought it off as hard as she could. She had something she needed to say too, something important.
What was it?
Oh. “I love you too, King.” She turned her head to look at him through blurry eyes. “I’ve always loved you. It’s always been you, only you.”
Those pale blue eyes that sent so much emotion through her every time she saw them smiled down at her. King started to speak, blinked, and closed his eyes.
His full weight fell on top of her. Charlotte bit back a cry at the agony in her side. “King? King!”
Someone rolled him over. Charlotte got a vague impression of a white coat and people yelling. Rough hands on her body that she struggled to fight off. They were hurting her; everything was hurting her. If they would just leave her alone, let her rest. She needed to get back to King.
“King!”
