Page 78 of Nine Months to Bear
“Olivia.” The way he says my name stops me in my tracks. “Next time, I may not be there.”
I stop. The inhale I draw in hurts, like it’s scraping my throat raw on the way down into my lungs. “Right,” I say in a hollow croak. “Then I guess I’d better learn to shoot better.”
It’s supposed to be a joke.
It sounds more like my last will and testament.
I don’t wait for his response, though. I just wrench the door free and flee.
My feet carry me down the stairs too quickly. I nearly stumble and break my neck on the last step. In the kitchen, his grandmother looks up from her dough, eyes knowing, but she asks no questions as I gulp down a glass of water with shaking hands.
When it’s done, I refill it and drain it again. Then I press my palms against the cool marble counter, eyes closed trying toground myself in the moment, in the normalcy of this warm kitchen.
If I can, I want to forget what just happened up there. I want to forget what I did. How close I came to jumping.
Because I know that, when I do—notif,butwhen—there will be no coming back.
33
OLIVIA
The drive back to my apartment feels like wading through molasses. Every few seconds, the memory of the crack of gunfire echoes in my ears, phantom sounds that make me flinch even though it’s silent inside the car.
I can’t stop replaying it: the bullets shattering glass, Stefan’s body covering mine, the bite of cold concrete in my cheek as shadows with guns tried to?—
“Stop that,” Stefan says, not looking at me.
“Stop what?”
“Thinking so loudly.” His fingers drum against the steering wheel, the only visible sign that he’s affected by what happened. “You’re fine. We’re fine.”
We’re fine.As if being shot at is a normal Tuesday for him. Hell, maybe it is. Maybe it’s about to become normal for me, too.
He parks at the curb rather than the driveway. Easier to escape that way, I assume.
“Stay behind me,” he orders as he escorts me to my own front door. The key shakes in my hand, and he plucks it from my fingers without comment.
Once inside my apartment, Stefan transforms into something feral—a wolf securing its den. He prowls through rooms I’ve lived in for years, seeing vulnerabilities I’ve never noticed. The sliding glass door with its flimsy lock. The kitchen window that sticks in humid weather. The bedroom skylight I’ve always loved for how moonlight spills across my sheets during sleepless nights.
“Fucking ridiculous,” he mutters, testing the front window’s latch with a disgusted shake of his head. “You may as well leave out warm cookies and a welcome mat for intruders.”
“Not all of us expect to be assassinated before breakfast,” I snap, crossing my arms to hold myself together.
The adrenaline crash is hitting me hard. I’m tired and sore and I just want a shower and bed.
Stefan continues his inspection, checking sight lines from windows, testing locks, noting entrances and exits. Every single observation gets another disappointed sigh.
When he’s done, he moves toward the door, keys jangling in his hand.
My heart leaps in fear.Is he done already? Is he leaving?
Something akin to panic flutters in my chest at the thought of being alone.
“Let me at least check that wound properly,” I blurt out. “Just to make sure it didn’t—that you didn’t— You don’t want it to get infected.”
He pauses. His expression is unreadable in the half-light of my entryway. “You did a good job the first time. I’m fine.”
“You’re already bleeding through the bandage,” I counter. “Sit down before you ruin my carpet. Do you have any idea how hard blood is to get out of wool?” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I snort softly. “You probably do, actually.”
