“What’s the matter, Roman? Did I do my job a little too well for you? Maybe I should ask that woman of yours if she knows what a weakling you are, huh? Wouldn’t you like that, Lane? To know that when you take your last breath here, I’ll be going after your girl and that kid next?”
“Fuck—”
“No, Roman, fuck you. I trusted you. I vouched for you when Cleo wanted to just kill you, and I put my own position on the line because I thought you were on the level. She’s going to kill me next if I let you escape and I can’t have that, not before I find her,” Dyson growls, grabbing my shirt and pulling me up with a snarl.
My body is unresponsive and I’m surprised he has the strength to hold up my dead weight when all that keeps me from falling again is the grip he has on my shirt.
“I don’t want to do this. Christ, I can’t fucking do this!” he finally says after several minutes spent staring at me. He drops me to the floor with a curse.
“I never wanted any of this. The things I’ve done…I did them because I need to get her back. She’s everything to me and…”
He stops talking and whips around when I hear what sounds like a truck before a huge vehicle the size of a tank comes screaming straight through one of the walls of the old warehouse.
Gunfire erupts and I see Dyson flinch and scowl and then he’s running for the opposite wall, yelling out orders to the men who come bursting out and into the action.
As gunfights go, this one lasts no more than five minutes, and when the smoke clears from my vision it’s to see Miah leaning over me, his eyes moist and tortured when he sees what’s left of me.
“I’ll kill them all. Wyatt, get over here with the stretcher. Lon, do that magic you do. He’s coughing blood and his lung sounds collapsed. Christ, Jace come and get Jerry, would ya?”
“Miah,” I croak. He leans closer as a sharp pain pierces my rib and the pressure miraculously releases, allowing me to draw a decent breath again.
“Tell her…she…always first…”
“You tell her.”
That’s all I hear before the lights blink out and the pain falls away sharply.
***
Melissa
The first thing I hear upon waking is the sound of hushed voices and Judith crying quietly from her perch beside me on the bed. I keep my eyes closed for as long as I can, just enjoying the warmth of her hip against mine and the way she keeps kissing my hand.
I feel rested, for once, and the feeling is so peaceful that I don’t want to let it go and open my eyes. If I do I’ll be back to where everything is so messed up.
“Come on now, honey pie, open those precious eyes and let Mama breathe again, sugar,” Judith whispers, stroking my cheek softly and with a tender love that makes me push closer to her touch.
“Judith?”
My eyes open slowly and she’s crying silent tears and smiling.
“Oh pooh, Mel dear, I told you to call me Mama. Now open those precious eyes and let me look at you. Oh, sweetheart, I am so glad you’re okay.”
My hands go to my belly in a panic when I remember falling before sweet darkness enveloped me.
“Oh, honey, no, don’t cry. He’s okay. The doctor said you were just too exhausted and the added shock from that vile man…it was too much. He gave you a sedative so you could get some rest, and we’re to keep you hydrated and rested for a little while, but you’re both just fine.”
The relief I feel brings tears to my eyes and it takes a lot of effort to wrestle them back.
“I think I’m ready to let go now, Mama,” I whisper, feeling heavy and light all at once.
The sadness I feel at this decision is immense, but I feel better knowing that I’m not letting my vulnerability cloud my judgement anymore.
I will always love Roman, but I’m done feeling this fear and anxiety because the man I love wants glory and accolades instead of the love I have to offer.
Judith looks at me askance and I see the exact moment she realizes my meaning because her shoulders slump and she takes a deep, sad breath.
“Honey, I love you. No matter what happens with you and my son, you need to know that I will always be here for you. That’s all I have to say. Now come on and sit up, sweetheart. You need to eat something and I made your favorite oatmeal.”
I hate oatmeal because Daddy used to make the stuff seven days a week till I hit thirteen and learned to cook in self-defence and the need to live.
I don’t have the heart to tell her, though, so I sit up and eat every gooey bite with a smile as she sits beside me and watches me like a hawk. When I’m done and manage to keep it all down as well as a cool glass of watered-down orange juice, I see her smile fade.