Skye swallowed. “I don’t…want you…to take care…”
Glass shattered. She heard the sound, coming from…above them?
Mitch tried to jerk away from her.
She held him tighter. He killed Trace. “I want…” Skye gathered her strength. Every last bit of it, and she thrust her body fully against his. “I want you…to die…”
The weight of her body sent him falling back, and this time, his head slammed into that metal pole. The crack was loud and wonderful and so perfect to her ears.
Footsteps thundered, sounding close.
“Skye!”
Trace’s voice.
He’s dead.
She dropped to her knees. Mitch was still alive. She couldn’t have that.
“Skye!”
She was still hearing Trace’s voice. She’d finally gone crazy.
The voices came first. That was the way it had been with her mother.
The voices.
She liked hearing Trace’s voice. Maybe being crazy wouldn’t be so bad.
“Fuck, Skye!”
Hands grabbed her, yanked her away from Mitch and—
Now I smell him.
Trace’s scent was rich and warm. Masculine. His arms were around her, squeezing her so tightly, and shudders racked his body.
A hallucination? It was so real and so wonderful.
“Love…you…” Skye managed to whisper.
“Baby, baby, I fucking love you! You’re okay, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”
He was kissing her. Her face. Her cracked lips. Holding her so tightly.
“You’re dead,” she said, so sad about that. Because she’d wanted to see him again. Her Trace.
“No, no, I’m not! Skye, I’m real, and I’m right here.”
She just stared into his eyes.
Fear burned in his gaze. “I’m here. Baby, baby, be here, too. Be here with me.”
A groan came from behind her. Mitch. She hadn’t finished killing him.
The image of Trace shook her. “I found you. You’re going home with me. You’re going to dance, and we’re going to fuck and laugh and be happy. Do you understand? Do you—”
“No,” Mitch’s voice. Snarling. “You’re not!”
She was thrown across the room. Ripped from the arms of her beautiful hallucination and tossed to the floor.
She’d used all of her strength. Skye couldn’t rise.
More footsteps were thundering. Again, coming from upstairs?
Then Skye realized…A basement. She was in a basement.
Her hands flattened on the hard floor. Pinpricks shot through her numb fingers.
“You’re done.” Trace lifted a gun. Pointed it right at Mitch. “You’ll never hurt her again.”
Mitch laughed. Laughed. “You’re the one who hurts her. I keep her safe. I love her—” He lunged forward. There was a knife in his hand. The blade gleamed as it sliced right toward Trace’s chest.
Not a hallucination. That’s Trace. I could smell him. I could touch him. That’s Trace.
She pushed to her knees. “No!” Skye tried to surge forward.
The bullet erupted from Trace’s gun. It drove into Mitch’s chest. But Mitch didn’t stop his attack. He swiped out with his knife.
Trace fired again.
The knife sank into Trace’s shoulder.
Trace fired. Again and again.
The knife dropped from Mitch’s fingers.
Before Mitch could fall, Trace grabbed his bloody shirt-front. “I told you what would happen.”
A gurgle came from Mitch’s lips.
Reese burst into the room.
Trace shoved Mitch away from him. The doctor hit the floor. His eyes were closed. Blood covered him.
Skye was still on her hands and knees. She wanted to move toward Trace, but her body wouldn’t listen to her. She couldn’t move. “Trace!”
He lifted her into his arms. Held her close against his heart. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
She wanted to cry, but couldn’t.
Wanted to scream, but her voice was gone.
She could only shake and shudder in his arms. Trace. Trace.
“Let me get her,” Reese said, coming close to them. “Your injured…you shouldn’t…”
“I’ve got her,” was all Trace said. He carried her up the stairs.
Carried her through the old, dusted interior of a house. Then they were outside. Rain was falling. It pelted down on her, and it felt so clean. Good.
Not as good as Trace’s arms.
He stood there, in the rain, just holding her. Police cruisers raced to the scene. An ambulance braked to a squealing stop.
Trace held her.
Alive.
Hope came back to her.
And her tears mixed with the rain.
***
Flowers covered the hospital room. Bright, vibrant colors. Enough petals to fill a florist shop.
The smell was heady.
The sight was gorgeous.
Skye wanted to get the hell out of there.
She’d been pumped with an IV for way too long. She wanted freedom. She wanted—
The hospital door opened. Trace stood there. The lines near his eyes were a little deeper. His face was grimmer than it had been when she first walked into his Chicago office.
His eyes were different, too. Still as blue. Still as bright.
But now she could see the love there. He wasn’t hiding that from her any longer.
“Ready to go?”
She was more than ready.
He pushed a wheel chair into the room. “Your chariot.”
Her brows climbed.
“They won’t let you go without it. But don’t worry, Reese is waiting right outside for us.” He lifted her. Let his hands linger as he pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. “This place will be a memory soon.” He eased her into the chair.
Trace started to push her toward the door.
She caught his hand. “What happens next?”
He bent near her, putting their eyes on level. “I take you to our suite at the hotel. I fuck you until some of this damn fear leaves me.” His gaze searched hers. “Then I spend the next fifty years making you as happy as I can.”
“Fifty years,” she whispered. “That’s a long time.”
“Not long enough. I figure it’s just a start for us.”
He pushed her into the hallway. She couldn’t help but tense. I’ll always hate hospitals.
“I’m with you.”
He knew, of course. There were no secrets between them. Why should there be?
The sunlight was bright outside. Reese waited, as promised, standing beside the vehicle.
“You look good, Ms. Sullivan,” he said giving her a quick nod.
Considering that the last time he’d seen her, Skye knew she’d looked like death, so, well, anything should be an improvement over that. “Thank you, Reese. You look good, too.”