Blyssfully Undone (The Blyss Trilogy 3)

Travis breaks through my confused state and holds out his hand for me to take. “C’mon, Jules. We have to keep moving.” I glance at Mitchell and see he is still alive. He’s almost unconscious now, but his labored breathing tells me his heart still beats. “Jules,” Travis warns.

I look over at Mitchell, who is sprawled out on the ground. “What about him?”

“He’ll be taken care of. No worries,” Rambo pipes in. Then he reaches into his back pocket as he kneels down on one knee, pulling out a few zip ties before he starts to secure Mitchell with them. Mitchell makes an ungodly guttural sound of pain when Rambo rolls him onto his stomach so he can tie his wrists together behind his back. I sit here stunned, in a daze. Travis squats down to get in my line of vision, blocking my view of the spectacle in order to gain my attention. I stare at Travis wide-eyed while searching his face for answers.

“It’s okay, baby,” Travis says softly, as if I’m a scared and frazzled little kitten. I probably am. He extends his hand out for me to take. All I can seem to do is stare blankly at his hand like it’s a foreign object. Taking matters into his own hands, he slips them underneath my arms and lifts me up. My legs tremble and shake as he makes me stand on my own two feet. I begin to sway, and my eyes close reflexively. I’m feeling a tad dizzy. All the crazy has finally caught up with me.

“Whoa, there.” He quickly holds me in a tight embrace, and I lay my head on his hard chest. I can’t hear his heart beating through the bulletproof vest, and I want so badly to hear the relaxing sound of his strong heart. “Are you okay, Jules?”

“I think so,” I mumble into his shirt. “Very freaked out, but I think I’m okay.”

“We will get through this. I promise,” he solemnly whispers over my head while keeping me within his protective hold.

“All right, Travis. Mitchell’s all tied up,” Rambo says from behind me all matter-of-factly, as if he didn’t just shoot somebody. “I have Stryker and Chase on clean-up duty. We need to move to the bunker and regroup.”

Travis bends his knees slightly and slants his head to the side with a worried look on his face. “Can you walk, baby?” I blink a few times, take a few deep, calming breaths, and then nod. “All right then, let’s get going.”

I must be in shock, as I don’t remember the walk to the bunker. It’s not until the steel door slams shut with a loud resounding clang that I come to my senses. Standing in the middle of the living room, I begin to find my anger again. I take out my shitty morning on the man who saved my life; I can’t help it. I turn around and narrow my eyes on Travis, and he stops in his tracks as he pauses to decipher my mood. It must be written all over my face.

“Travis, mind telling me just what the hell is going on?”

He lifts a brow, studying me for a moment, and to his credit, he doesn't get flustered with me.

“Jules, just calm down,” he replies calmly.

I feel hysteria coming on, and he tells me to calm down? The pitch of my voice could break glass I’m so irate. “I’ve just killed someone. Bad men are gunning us down. I thought you were shot, and you’re telling me to calm down?” I pause and point at my chest. “Why me? I don’t understand any of this!” I turn around and wave toward the hulk of a man who’s standing in the kitchen, rummaging through some cabinet drawers with purpose, and then my voice goes deep and low. “Then there’s freaking Rambo in here who just appears out of nowhere to save the day. What the fuck, Travis?! Mind letting me in on your little games?”

“Jules, calm the fuck down,” Travis growls, his temper sounding just as short-fused as mine. “Just calm down and I’ll explain.”

I take a deep breath, even though I want to yell and scream, but I’m flustered for words right now. I feel shaky and distraught, and I suppose it’s because I’m out of harm’s way.

“Your adrenaline is running wild.” He steps toward me to hold me tightly against his chest. I tremble in his arms as I start to hyperventilate. “Shh, sweetheart. Easy breaths,” he commands softly. How the hell he continues to stay strong and put together through all this, I’ll never know. He acts so unaffected from our circumstances, and it baffles me.

I startle when Rambo sneaks up behind me and whispers in my ear, “By the way, my name’s not Rambo. I’m Quinn. I’m saying sorry on the front end, but I have to do this.” My forehead wrinkles in confusion. That’s an odd statement, and before I can turn around to see what his deal is, I feel a needle jabbing into the side of my arm.