Page 49 of No Saint

As he says these words, Nate storms into the room, eyes first finding an injured Colt on the couch before they land on me and Lincoln. “Let’s go!” He orders, “Move now!”

I don’t move.

I can’t move.

“Amelia,” he softens, “Come on, let’s go.”

He suddenly ducks when another shot rings out.

“Go!” He roars.

I somehow manage to get to my feet, falling towards him. He grabs Lincoln from me, holding him in one arm against his hip while his other grabs me, curling me into him, shielding us both with his own body.

He was using himself.

My throat burned with a scream I wanted to unleash, and my head buzzed with both the echoes of the gunfire and Lincoln’s cry.

He pushed us through the house, towards Gabriel’s office. It felt open in the foyer as we crossed, too quiet, too exposed.

The scream bursts from me the moment I hear a huge crash behind, the front door slamming open and shouts bellowing.

“Run!” Nate yells, forcing Lincoln back into my arms and pushing me. Men run towards me, I recognize their faces, but they don’t stop, they flow past, an army heading into battle.

Everything explodes into a chaotic riot of loud bangs and shouts, heavy thuds, and cries of pain.

I run.

I’m not ashamed. I curl my body around Lincoln, my only thought is to get him away from the danger. My feet slam on the marble flooring, my breath sawing from my chest as I burst through the door to Gabriel’s office and practically throw both of us beneath the desk, rolling in a way so my body takes the brunt of the fall. My side, just at the bottom of my ribcage slams into the edge, pain bursting through me and stars blooming behind my eyes, but I push it back, push it away, curling myself around Lincoln to protect him.

I flinch with every shot, with every scream, Lincoln still crying in my arms.

“Shh,” My voice shakes, “Shh baby, it’s okay.”

I cradle his head, rocking him in the tiny cramped up space. Memories try to flood in, memories of me being a little girl, hiding in the cupboard beneath the sink while my stepfather screamed and destroyed the place, throwing plates and smashing furniture, searching for me so he had a body to take his anger out on.

It used to be my mother. But she was gone and the next best thing for him was me.

I’d sit in the cupboard for hours, my hand pressed so tight across my mouth I’d be left with a red mark or bruising but that was better than the pain he would cause. I still held many scars caused by him, on my thighs, my back, the tops of my arms.

But I learned to hide, just like I was doing now but this time, I wasn’t hiding for me, this went beyond me, this was for my son.

I knew people were dying. I could hear their bodies dropping, their gurgled cries but I stayed for him.

Tears streamed down my face, my heart thumped wildly inside my chest but somehow, someway, my rocking and cooing settled Lincolns cries.

I continue that gentle sway back and forth, the back of his head cupped in my hand, his cheek to my chest. My tears are silent, my anguish internal but I feel myself being ripped apart.

Silence falls, like a lead weight it drops onto the house, and I suck in a breath, holding it, my tears burning tracks down my cheeks until they drop into Lincoln’s mane of unruly dark curls. He suckles his thumb, his little aftershocks of the crying rocking his body as he hiccups.

“Where is she?” Someone says.

I swallow.

It was nauseating, having a double dose of fear. Fear of your past, of your memories haunting you and the present, of the now and the very real danger.

They’d kill us both.

By that question alone, they were looking for me.

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