Page 107 of Where Quiet Hearts Scream
“This is worst I’ve ever seen,” Arrow mumbles. “It missed this artery by just a couple inches.”
Relief, fear and anger slam into me at force as I realize I almost lost him. I might still lose him.
“Is he going to be okay?”
“If I can get this fucker out,” Arrow says, wincing.Then he sucks in a breath and digs one more time. “Got the bastard.”
He pulls out a large, bloodied brass bullet and drops it onto the glass coffee table.
Andreas spits out the bandage and roars triumphantly.
“Don’t you dare sit up,” Arrow warns. “You’re basically a blood faucet right now. I need to stitch you up.”
Andreas’ head falls to the side and a look of sheer bliss passes over it. “Sera,” he whispers.
I rest my palm on his cheek. “Shh. Don’t talk. There’ll be plenty of time for talking later.”
Seconds later, Benito strides into the room, my machine gun dangling from one hand, his matte black handgun from the other. “You okay?”
Despite them being brothers, there’s still an edginess to their relationship. They’ve been apart for so long, trust has yet to fully return.
Andreas groans. “Yeah. I’ll live.”
“You won’t if you keep moving,” Arrow bites out.
“I need a fucking drink.” Benito leaves us with that little insight and heads to the kitchen.
I continue to clean up Andreas’ hand. When I pass over the broken bones, he doesn’t even flinch.
Arrow threads a needle and gets to work wiping away blood and stitching the folds of skin together. All the while, Andreas’ gaze rests hotly on the side of my face.
When Arrow has finished stitching up Andreas’ chest and has cleared away all the tools and bandages,he stands over Andreas. “I’ve called the doctor and he’s bringing some morphine.”
Andreas grunts. “I don’t need morphine.”
“You can’t fool me, A. I know how much pain you’re in. Besides, morphine might stop you from moving.” His brows hike up, challenging Andreas to object.
I rest a hand on Andreas’ arm and smile up at Arrow. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t move.”
“Benito’s men are on their way. They’ll move all the bodies,” Arrow says to us both.
I lift my gaze. “How many?”
“Twelve.”
I nod. I killed at least six of them.
Nausea threatens to climb up my throat for the second time today. I’m a killer. A murderer. I have blood on my hands.
I want to make the world a better place for the kind of men that I just killed. Ones who probably found themselves as young boys, on the streets, with no sense of direction, through no fault of their own.
Andreas notices the sudden change in my demeanor.
His voice is rough. “It was self-defense, Sera. They would have killed you if you hadn’t shot them first.”
I force a smile. “I know.”
Then I look into my husband’s eyes, see a world of love within them, and a sober thought occurs to me. “I would do it all again.”
