A fucking gun.
Crazy A sniped at him to hurry up, oblivious as Frankie raised the small revolver. Before Anteros could wonder where she’d gotten it, she aimed. The barrel was right at his heart and it looked like she was going to shoot him. The air stilled, movements stuck in molasses, then Frankie pivoted.
One, two, three times Frankie fired. The bullets whizzed so close they grazed the fabric on his arm. Anteros spun around with them. Two of the bullets had missed Crazy A completely, but one landed—the only one that mattered.
Crazy A realized what was happening a second too late to save himself, but soon enough to fire. With a loud pop like a firework, he pulled the trigger on his dying breath. Burning pain in his shoulder let Anteros know he’d been hit, but it was light enough that he knew it only pierced his flesh. Anteros followed the bullet, fire in his heart as it narrowly avoided Frankie, landing with a final punch into the bookshelf, just above her scalp.
Assured Frankie was safe, Anteros turned back to Crazy A. One bullet was lodged into his forehead, gold rim protruding from his skin as a thin trail of blood dripped down. His mouth was a slack-jawed O, gun still gripped weakly in his hand. His knees buckled, his legs gave, and he fell face forward onto a pile of books.
It was overkill, but Anteros discharged his only bullet into Crazy A’s back anyway. When the only sound left was the clicking of the empty cartridge, Anteros went to Frankie. She was on the verge of passing out, slunk against the bookshelf. The wound at her side had grown, her entire left side now drenched a deep merlot.
“Bay. Of. Pigs.” Frankie took a deep breath between each word, then slid to the floor.
Twenty-Four
“Frankie.”
The voice sounded distant. I groaned—everything hurt, and I mean everything. I wasn’t sure where I was, but it was soft. Was it the afterlife? I pushed my face deeper into the softness, moaning.
“Mio cuore.”
I rolled over and blinked. My view was shadowed by a hard, bearded jaw…intense bluegreen eyes…tan, smooth skin.
Anteros.
It came back to me in flashes—Lucia—Nikolai—Crazy A—getting stabbed.
I slapped him across the face. “Get off me!”
“I saved our lives,” he gritted, keeping me pinned. This time I punched him. He spit the blood out, keeping his eyes locked on mine. I immediately regretted punching him, not because I felt badly but because it hurt my hand and my side burned with the movement.
Anteros wiped the blood from his mouth, unperturbed. “Nothing I said was true. I lied to him. It fucking killed me to hurt you, Frankie. How could you even think I would mean any of it? You’re in my blood, the only way you leave me is if I bleed out.” I could only feel the next few seconds. Heartbeats like bass too loud in my chest. The bed moving up and down with my breath. His skin pressing into my legs. Anteros had taken off everything save the lingerie Lucia had forced me into, but he was still dressed—except not in the tuxedo. Wearing slacks and a navy Henley, he was dressed suspiciously like the first days we’d been together. We were in his room, but it had never really felt like just his room.
God, was the nightmare finally over? Could I finally just sleep here with him?
“I know you didn’t lie to me,” I finally said. “How could you even think I thought that?” I’d never once thought Anteros was telling the truth to Crazy A. After everything we’d been through, I at least had that reassurance, but, Jesus, I’d gotten fucking stabbed. “You stabbed me.”
“I saved you,” he growled.
“I saved you,” I amended. “I killed Lucia like we planned. She had a gun and I was looking for a way to tell you but you decided stabbing me was better I guess.”
He exhaled and shook his head like I was some child who wouldn’t stop asking why. “I had a plan.”
“Your plan sucked ass. It involved me getting stabbed.”
“Barely.” He grinned, sharp white teeth—a wolf for whom I would gladly be dinner.
I looked to the side and said, “Maybe I should barely stab you.”
“Don’t tease me, mio cuore.” One, two, three beats passed before I looked back, falling into his gaze. He pushed me deeper into the mattress and I sank into the sheets, so close his breath heated my lips. Then his lips were on me and I didn’t give a shit about the pain reverberating in my body—I had to have him.
Anteros’s lips were wet and hot and delicious—my perfect half. He threaded his fingers through my hair, and his guttural groan echoed in my lungs. When we broke apart, his saliva wetted my mouth. I focused on his lips, the red color, the way they curved slightly in a smile. I blinked, then looked at my abdomen.
“You stitched me up?” I asked, fingers grazing across the newly mended flesh.
“You were out for hours. I also had to clean myself up.” He moved a strand of hair behind my ear and gestured to his new outfit. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t give you any medicine while you were asleep.”
“Now I’m going to have more scars,” I thought aloud.