Page 51 of Sexting His Assistant

“You’re shot,” I say again, louder, because apparently repeating it might make the universe take it back.

His gaze cuts to mine. “Nina.”

The way he says my name snaps something into place. Not calm. Nothing that generous. But function. Enough of it, anyway.

I crawl closer, ignoring the scrape of concrete against my knees, and reach for his shoulder.

He catches my wrist. “No.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s not important.”

I stare at him.

A hysterical laugh almost comes out of me. Not important. Of course. A bullet hole in his shoulder isn’t important because Luka Kazan has apparently filed basic human injury under administrative inconvenience.

“It’s very important to me,” I hiss.

His expression flickers. Just once.

Then another shot hits the ground on the other side of the car, sending sparks off the concrete.

He shoves me down again, his body covering mine so completely I can barely see past his chest. I can feel the heat of his blood now, warm where it has soaked through his sleeve and brushed against my hand.

Something inside me turns cold.

Not fear this time.

Anger. Sharp, bright, insane anger.

Someone fucking shot him.

The details don’t matter yet.

All I know is that a few minutes ago, I was furious because he left me in a boardroom, and now I’m on the floor beneath him while his blood gets on my fingers.

A man appears at the front of the car.

I don’t see his face clearly. Just the shape of him, the gun in his hand, the movement of his arm lifting.

Luka starts to turn, but he’s slower now.

Only a fraction. Enough.

I grab the first thing my hand finds—my fallen handbag, ridiculous and small and completely useless except that it has a metal clasp heavy enough to hurt—and I throw it with everything in me.

It hits the man in the face.

It smacks him hard enough to startle him, and his shot goes wild, cracking into the ceiling.

Luka does not waste the opening. He fires once.

The man drops out of sight.

For one second, I stare at the place where he disappeared, my hand still outstretched, my breath gone.

I think I have just helped shoot someone.