I aim the gun at Byron. Now he’s the one looking down the barrel. He’s the one counting.
“You wouldn’t,” he says coldly. Confidently. Not counting, after all.
I fire. I’m aiming for the center of his chest. The kickback from the gun and wrenching pain in my hand means I hit his shoulder instead. And it feels good. After all the times he slapped me, fucked me. Hurt me. God, my hand hurts. But it feels really good too. Sweet victory.
Though it doesn’t feel exactly like victory when he manages to grab me. He spins me around and puts a gun to my head.
He wants to use me as a hostage. And it’s already working. I see Kip’s eyes dark with anger—and fear. He’s afraid for me, because there’s a gun to my head. But I’ve already broken my own hand. I’m fucking invincible. He’s pointing his gun at us both, but I know he won’t shoot. He can’t, not without hitting me too.
“Hello, little brother,” Byron says, and that’s enough to shock me out of my plan.
Kip nods slightly. “I wish I could say I was glad to see you.”
Byron laughs. “Aren’t you? You’ve been searching for me for weeks.”
“Not you. Her.”
“Ah yes.” Byron looks down at me, moving the nozzle of the gun to my side. “She’s a good fuck. But not worth all this trouble if you ask me. Girls like that, they’re a dime a dozen.”
Kip looks furious. His nostrils flare. He’s probably going to say something to defend me. Or maybe he’ll just start shooting. I don’t give him the chance. Because I can defend myself.
I’m only Byron’s captive if I want to survive. I’m done surviving.
I reach down and grab the gun. He could have fought me if I tried to take it from him. I don’t. Instead I squeeze the trigger. I shoot myself. I cinch the trap. He doesn’t have anything left to bargain with now. He doesn’t even have my body to shield himself. I fall to the floor, and I hear the shots that kill Byron—one, two, three—before he collapses beside me.
Then Kip is there, turning me over, pressing a hand to my side, swearing and praying and pleading. “God, Honor. Why did you—Jesus. Please live. Please keep her alive. God, please.”
Chapter Seventeen
It feels like a dream.
I’m underwater. Lights and shadows dance in front of my eyes. Everything is muted, even the pain. But it’s there. And voices. I recognize that voice. She’s not talking to me, though. She’s far away.
“Clara,” I say, but it comes out like a croak. A rough sound, like rocks tumbling over each other.
She hears me anyway.
“Go back to sleep,” she says, and something cool and soft brushes over my forehead. It feels important, her saying that. It feels important the way she’s taking care of me, keeping me safe. Isn’t that my job?
Safe.
I have to make sure she’s safe. I fight against the water, but it’s so heavy and thick. The only things I can see are a sterile white ceiling. The only thing I can smell is the sharp tang of cleaning solution. I’m in a hospital bed.
“Everything’s fine.” Her voice is soothing. “Just rest.”
But I can’t rest if I’m worried about her. I could never rest. So tired. “Are you okay?” The words are still garbled but she answers me.
“I’m fine. And you are too. We made it out okay, because of you.”
Only then can I relax again. Only then can I breathe.
It’s like breaking the surface, coming up for air. Safe.
Her hand grasps mine, warm where I’m cold. I soak in her heat, basking in the rays of her. “I know you’re hurting,” she says softly. And even in my delirium I know she isn’t just talking about the physical pain. She’s talking about every cold glance on my body and every cruel word. She’s talking about being afraid. And I am afraid, just not for the same reasons I was before.
“Kip?” I ask, my voice rough.
“He’s not here right now. If you wait a minute I can—”
But the pull of the drugs and the pain and the tiredness are too strong. They drag me under, like an anchor tied to my ankles. I sink to the bottom, barely aware. I only know one thing. I may have lost Kip. I may not have ever really had him. But I have Clara back.
I set her free.
Chapter Eighteen
I wake up like coming up for air—suddenly and with a jolt. I’m upright in a bed, and there’s an ache in my side. The bullet. Byron. Kip.
It comes back to me in a rush, and I lie back down in the bed.
Close my eyes.
Wish I could be asleep again.
That ship has sailed. I peek one eye open and look around at the pale yellow curtains and the painting of ballet dancers on a barre. The floor is the color of cinnamon, the walls a soft taupe. The elements of the room chatter together, that’s how it feels. They’re friends and confidantes of each other, and my presence here feels intimate, not intrusive.