Page 54 of We Are All Liars Here

No…

She decides not when he parts his lips again and a spill of fresh dark blood flows from his mouth.

Trevor’s frown digs deeper into the creases of his face. Confusion, pain? Both?

Billie’s not sure, and she’s less sure why she cares to read him so closely, unless she really does get a kick out of folk dying in front of her, and it’s less of a ‘strong stomach’ and more of a ‘let-me-watch-you-die’ thrill. Because she doesn’t look away, not once, as Trevor drops to his knees, the cartilage cracking against the hard floor, and slowly, he falls to his side.

But not dead, not yet.

The gunshot is clean through his lower face. He must’ve flinched, like Billie did, when the gun fired. Or Preston is still disorientated from his head wound and can’t quite aim. Whatever it is, Trevor’s cheek looks completely shredded apart, and that exit wound at the jaw joint is a blasted-to-pieces-gaping-hole.

If Billie ever had a weak stomach for violence (which, since what she did to Henry Maxwell’s corpse, she realizes she has the opposite), the sight of his deformed, bloody face would make her sick up all over herself in the chair.

But she only stares at him.

Trevor wheezes on the floor, spills of blood from his mouth just pooling around his face.

Preston’s the first to break free of the moment.

He pulls his attention away from Trevor, satisfied he’s not getting back up on his own, and he moves for Billie. She flinches, instinct tugging her further back in the wheelchair, as her eyes dart to him.

He drops to one knee at her side and, without a glance up at her, starts tearing at the buckles that fasten the restraints. He makes fast, rushed work of it and—in a matter of a few racing heartbeats—the last restraint is yanked free.

Billie reaches for him.

Preston rises from the crouch and, on his way, scoops her up by the waist. He pulls her against him—and for a moment, she lets herself melt.

She buries her face in his chest, no matter how hard and unwelcoming it is, and it feels like home. It feels like the safest place in this cold, rotten world.

The sobs itch to break free, to erupt within her and ache her heart. But she holds her breath, as though to fight the tears, and she murmurs unintelligible words into the cashmere of his sweater.

“What?” Preston’s voice is a murmur right by her ear, his head dropped low as he holds her, words spoken so softly. “Billie, what?”

“Mine.” Billie draws back. “Mine.”

Her legs wobble, unsteady beneath her, and she shifts all her weight onto her good leg. But even then, Preston’s hand stays gripped on her waist to keep her balance. His eyes are blank—confused—and the frown tucking into his face is a question.

Reaching out a shaky, bloody hand, Billie cuts her gaze to the Glock loose in his grip.

Preston traces her gaze…

His jaw clenches, but as he lifts his eyes back to her, he lifts the gun, too. He offers it to her.

She doesn’t hesitate. Bloodlust, no weak stomachs.

Preston’s hands find her waist and he guides her to turn around, to face Trevor’s writhing, whining body on the floor.

Billie lifts the gun—

And she doesn’t fuck around.

Bang!

A bullet hole blasts into Trevor’s crotch.

Her voice is still a croak, but she musters what she can, and her curling lips speak volumes of her hatred, “That’s for Kate.”

Bang!

---