I pull Mia to me and flatten myself against the wall, one hand pressed to her mouth. She looks up at me then, her blue eyes lost and confused, but I don’t have the luxury to explain.
Instead, I press my free finger to my lips.
She nods once, trusting me.
A few people rush out of the church, running ahead. They don’t see us—they can’t. They’re too agitated, too blind with fear to pay attention to the darkness.
Then they start dropping.
The shots are quiet. Silenced. They whistle through the air and that’s it: one dead, two, three women fall like marionettes in the grass.
Mia chokes a scream into my hand, eyes gone wide and terrified.
“Don’t look,” I whisper again.
Her eyes flutter shut. I can feel something wet on my hand, dropping down my fingers like pattering rain.
Tears,I realize.She’s crying. For strangers.
“Maks,” I mutter into my phone. “Bring the car. Now.”
Moments later, Maksim’s limo skids to a stop next to us. He must’ve already been on his way. “Get in!”
I don’t need him to tell me twice.
I throw Mia into the backseat head-first, then I follow. Before I’ve even shut the door, the engine is already roaring again, Maksim’s foot slamming on the gas pedal.
Then we’re off into the night.
I wait until the shots fade, then turn to Mia. “Are you?—”
Hurt,I want to ask, but the word dies in my throat.
She isn’t wounded, not physically. But her eyes are still huge, unblinking, her mouth forming words that won’t come. Her hands, rigid like blocks of ice, still haven’t let go of my arm.
I don’t make her.
“Mia.” My voice drops low, as soft as I can ever make it. “It’s over now. You’re safe.”
She’s shaking like a leaf. I can hear her teeth rattling, can feel her sharp intakes of breath like she’s forgotten how inhaling and exhaling works.
The protective thing inside me roars, fierce. It roars for her—for Mia Winters, or whatever her real name is.
I have no idea why. She’s nothing to me.
Then why are you still holding her?
I chalk it up to the memories. Once, a long time ago, I lost people just like this. People who actually meant something to me—people who meant everything. I tell myself that’s all this is: me, projecting. Feeling what I felt then, like an echo of a long-forgotten song.
And yet, it’s hard to make myself believe it.
Not when every inch of my body wants to wrap around hers and never let go.
I swallow down the urge and stay where I am. This is why I don’t date for real: it’s too fucking inconvenient. Being with someone means getting attached. It means giving a shit about them, tying yourself to them.
It means that, when a bullet goes through their chest, youfeelit.
Like it was your own damn heart.
