Page 37 of Shattered King

I held her, waiting for the ambulance to arrive. Squeezing my eyes closed, nostrils flaring as I sucked in a ragged breath, the night air doing nothing to cool my blood. My head felt like it was going to fucking explode. I’d fucked up. I’d let my emotions cloud my judgment—now and then.

The Lulu I knew, the woman I’d loved, the same Lulu who I’d chained to a fucking bathroom sink, would have never betrayed me, not willingly. I’d been so goddamn angry, felt so utterly helpless, I couldn’t see past the red rage clouding the truth.

Lulu hadn’t let me go down willingly. Hadn’t left me willingly.

I should have known she’d never do that to me.

I’d been force-fed Pierce’s bullshit, what he wanted me to believe, and I had. I’d believed all of it.

Fuck.

The ambulance finally arrived and people tried to take her away from me, tried to take her out of my arms. I ignored them and kept moving. I wasn’t letting her go, not ever again.

“Hunt, brother, you gotta hand her over. Let them treat her.” Van’s hand came down on my shoulder, squeezing.

I shook him off. “I’m coming,” I said to the medic and climbed into the back of the ambulance, laying her carefully on the stretcher so they could get to work on her. Then I took her hand in mine. Shit, so cold. “Save her. Don’t let her . . . just fucking save her.”

“Are you family?” One of them asked as he moved to pull the doors closed.

I shook my head. “More.”

Then I did something I hadn’t done since I was a little kid, hiding under my bed while my old man beat the shit out of my mother. I prayed.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Lulu

Something warm covered my hand. It felt good to be warm again. I let it surround me, soak into me, and I drifted back to sleep.

When I woke next, it was to the sound of voices, murmuring, deep voices, and the heat that had covered my right hand was gone. I missed it. The voices stopped. It was quiet again. I tried to open my eyes, but they still felt kind of heavy, so I stopped trying and sunk back, letting myself drift away again.

The warmth was back the next time I woke. Something was stroking my wrist. It felt nice, really nice. The heavy weight of sleep wasn’t so heavy this time. I dragged my lids open, blinking several times, and took in my surroundings.

I was in a smallish room, the walls pale blue, a vertical blind covering the window. A beeping sound that had seemed distant grew louder. I tried to move, but I couldn’t, I was stiff and sore.

I knew where I was. A hospital.

That’s when it came flooding back, hard and fast. Everything that had happened. Pierce . . . what he’d tried to do to me.

The hairs on my arms lifted. I jerked my head to the left. A bag full of liquid hung on a stand beside the bed. A tube came out from the bottom, the other end fed under the skin of my hand, attached with white tape. I needed to get out of here. I needed to get to Josh. I reached down to tear it out.

“Don’t.”

That rough, low voice moved right through me, twisted in my chest, curled warmly in my belly. I froze, and the gentle stroking started up again, brushing the inside of my right wrist. Or had it been there the whole time? My mind was still too hazy to remember. The goose bumps on my arms turned to pleasant tingles.

I knew who it was sitting beside me. I’d always known.

I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. So I dipped my head, eyes focused on my right hand instead.

It looked small, pale. The hand surrounding it was big, tanned, with long wide fingers. Tattoos. Lots of tattoos.

I stared down at them, and tried to make sense of it. My mind was coming up blank. Why would Hunter hold my hand? Why was Hunter even here?

I sucked in a panicked breath and tried to yank it away, but those long, thick fingers tightened, refusing to let me go.

“Look at me, baby.”

The heat curling in my belly intensified, but I shook my head.