by Kris Norris
Asshole would pay.
Sam sheathed the blade, calmed his mind, then stepped out. “Let her go, Worthington.”
Brock jumped, but not in the direction Sam had hoped would make this a simple take down. All he’d needed was for the jackass to look toward the door. One second, and Sam would have put a bullet between his eyes.
Instead, the other man ducked farther behind the corner then spun Bridgette, holding the edge of an enormous blade across her throat as he hid behind her. It wasn’t easy. The guy was nearly as tall as Sam, with wide shoulders and a muscular frame, but Brock managed to hunch down—eliminate any viable target that would end this rather than simply piss the guy off.
The only solid mark was the guy’s hand, with his beefy fingers gripped around the knife’s hilt. Sam could hit the fucker’s knuckles. But, this close, the bullet would go right through. Peg Bridg in the chest. Not an option.
He kept the gun leveled at Brock’s head, not giving the guy an inch. “No way out. Drop the knife, and you might walk out of here alive. Might.”
Brock cackled. No other way to describe the throaty sound that rasped out of his throat. “Drop your gun, and back the fuck up, or you’ll watch me slit her throat.”
Sam risked a glance at Bridgette. Blood soaked the left side of her shirt, smears of it across her neck and face. There was a bluish tinge around her lips, and a bruised look to the skin beneath her eyes.
She’d lost a lot of blood.
He went against the voice in his head and glanced at her eyes, inhaling sharply. Calm, almost cold. Not an ounce of fear. In fact, she looked at peace. That’s when he realized, she hadn’t planned on getting out of this alive. She’d fought back, had made the bastard chase her in order to leave clues—the partial bloody boot treads down the hall. The bits of fabric that had caught on the broken bookcase. And, somewhere along the way, Brock had scratched his left arm, the wound no doubt leaving small drops of blood on the floors or the snow. A thousand ways to place him at the house. Prove he’d killed her.
Fuck that. Brock could fry for his crimes, but there was no way Bridgette was dying. Not on Sam’s watch.
“You touch her any more than you have, and I’ll forget about the might.”
“Make all the threats you want, cowboy. There’s no way you can get off a shot without clipping her. And she’s already halfway dead. Another hit, even a minor one, and you’ll kill her.” Brock yanked on her hair, scratching a line across her skin. “Put that fucking thing down, or I swear I’ll gut her. You’ll kill me, but you’ll have to watch her die, first.”
Sam held firm. He didn’t need Brock to give him a target. He just needed to get the bastard to move his hand slightly. Remove the blade from in front of her throat and over to the side. Somewhere it wouldn’t involuntarily hurt her when he went down. And the bastard was going down.
Sam smiled, slowly lowering his gun. “Fine. We’ll play it your way.”
Brock’s muscles eased, and his hand drifted over. More. More. Just a little bit more…
Sam raised his gun then fired, hitting the creep in the wrist, paralyzing his hand, just as Ice barreled through the backdoor, clipping Brock in the back of the head. A red mist exploded in the room, shooting across the cupboards as Brock’s body quivered then dropped. Hard.
The force knocked Bridgette backwards. Ice dove at her, catching her head in one outstretched hand before it had bounced off the floor. The reverberation from the shot lingered for a few more seconds, then silence.
Sam holstered his gun then cleared off the island with a sweep of his hand—tossing Brock’s gun onto his corpse. Ice lifted her over, placing her on top then angling her onto her right side. Her skin was deathly pale, the red splotches of blood standing out in stark contrast. Her head lolled against the counter as her eyelids fluttered but didn’t open.
Sam grabbed her hand, squeezing it to gain her attention. “Bridg.”
She blinked a few times, half opening unfocused eyes before drifting off, again.
“Damn it, darling. Open your eyes. Look at me.” Sam glanced up at Ice. “Russel. Brother, you have to save her.”
Ice paused. Sam had only ever called him Russel during a mission once before, and he hadn’t been able to save Gray that night. Ice nodded, searching through the drawers until he found a stack of tea towels.
He cut away her shirt, frowning when Bridg groaned as the fabric pulled a bit on her skin. “Shit. Hold these. Tight against the wounds. Two on the back, one on the front. Equal pressure both sides. I’ve got a medic bag in my truck. I’ll be right back.” He stopped in the doorway. “Tight, Sam.”
Sam pressed on the padding until his damn hands cramped. Bridgette’s eyes flew open, the blue color more faded. Dull. She opened her mouth, took a few gasping breaths—sounding as if each one would be her last. She managed to grab his wrist with her right hand, leaving a smear of blood and sweat on his skin.
He leaned over her. “I know it hurts. But we need to stop the bleeding.”
Her eyes darted from side to side, and her tongue swept weakly across her lips. “Brock…”
“No longer a concern.”
A small twitch of her lips. “Fucking…A…”
“Listen to you. A few weeks with an ex-soldier, and you’ve developed quite the potty mouth. No, no, no, darling. Stay with me.”
Her eyelids fluttered, and her grip weakened.
“Bridgette!”
He put every ounce of command in his voice. The hard tone that had made new recruits scramble to attention. Bridgette barely opened her eyes.
“Eyes on me. I want to see those beautiful baby blues, okay? Russel’s coming right back. He’s got a magic kit with him. I’ve seen him scare soldiers back from the dead with it. So, just…keep your eyes on me. Just a bit longer. Give him a chance.”
A hint of a smile this time. “Must…be serious.” She coughed. Grimaced. Looking weaker by the second. She managed to lick her lips, staring up at him, glazed. Lids starting to close. “You called…him…Russel.”
“Can’t fool you.” He leaned in closer. “Don’t die on me. Please, Bridg.”
Ice appeared in the doorway, huge black bag over one shoulder. He placed it next to her on the island, spreading open the sides. He motioned for Sam to release the back wad of towels, as Ice grabbed a bunch of supplies, working quickly. Then, he leaned over her. “Hey, sweetheart. I’m going to walk you through this, okay?” He poured some liquid onto a pad. “This will cleanse your wound. It’s gonna sting but only for a few moments.”
Bridgette stiffened the second he touched her puckered skin, wiping away the top layer of dried blood and bits of material from her sweater. Her grip on Sam’s wrist tightened, turning his skin white around her fingers as Russel worked on her wounds.
Sam bent close. “I’m right here.”
She whimpered, and something turned over hard in his chest. He wanted to take it all away. Change places. He was the soldier. He was the one who was supposed to die like this. Not her. Not at the hands of some sick prick.
Ice sighed. “Great job. That part’s over. Now, I’m gonna put on some coagulating powder. Nothing to it. It’ll help stop the bleeding. Do you know what blood type you are?”
She was fading, eyelids drooping.
Ice did something—pushed on some part of her—and her eyelids fluttered open. “Bridgette? What blood type are you, sweetheart?”
Her lips formed an O, but the word barely registered.
“She’s O, Ice.”
He nodded. “Positive or negative?”
“Neg…” That’s all she managed before it morphed into a groan.
“O negative. Got it, sweetheart.” He looked up at Sam as he layered on some kind of bandage then started taping it in place. “You’re O neg, aren’t you, Midnight?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. I’ve got help on the way, but…we might have to do a direct transfer. She’s…dangerously close to hemorrhagic shock.”
&n
bsp; “How much do you think she’s lost?”
“Over a liter.”
Sam swallowed. How the fuck was she still conscious? Still breathing? He stared at her. Willed the pulse beneath her skin to keep fluttering. Those gasping, rough breaths to keep filling the room.
“We need to lay her flat, now. Let me deal with the through and through.”
Sam helped ease her onto her back when Ice’s words finally registered. “Through and through? How many times was she shot?”
Ice was already cleaning her wound. “Twice. One’s still in there. Hopefully, it’s in her scapula and didn’t ricochet.”
“And if it did?”
Ice gave him a cold stare but kept on working.
Sam lifted her hand, sandwiching it between his. “Bridgette. Eyes on me, beautiful.”
It took her a few agonizing moments to work up the energy just to look at him.
He leaned in until his mouth was inches away from her face. “Almost done. Then, it’s just a ride, okay?”
She squeezed his hand. Barely noticeable, but he returned the light touch. “Not…your fault.”
Tears burned behind his eyes. “We can discuss blame later. Just focus on staying here. With me.”
“I’m…sorry, Sam.” She gulped in air, but it didn’t seem to do much good. “Should…have told…you. Never…should…have…ru—”
“It’s okay. It’s over, now. And you’re going to be okay.” He glanced desperately at his buddy. “Russel.”
“She was shot point blank. We’re lucky she’s as stubborn as you are and wasn’t killed outright.” He cocked his head to the side. “Sirens. But she can’t wait. I’m starting that transfusion.”
Sam rolled up his sleeve. He’d give her every last drop if it would make a difference. Russel used another thick bandage and wrapped some kind of tape around her shoulder, keeping everything tight. It looked as if he’d stopped the bleeding, though, based on the white cast to her skin, she was already on the edge.
Sam squeezed her hand. No response. “Bridgette!”
A grimace. Nothing else.
Ice scraped a chair across the floor. “Sit.”
Sam wasn’t sure if he sat or if his knees just buckled, plunking him down in the chair. Russel wiped something on his arm, then there was a small prick. Sam glanced down, staring at the red-colored tube connecting his arm to hers. When had Ice gotten it all ready?
Shit. Sam was losing it. Losing pockets of time. Bits of his soul as he sat there, holding Bridgette’s hand, wondering if this was the last time it would have any warmth. If he’d never get a chance to tell her how he felt.
Voices sounded in the background then the room exploded with people. Police. FBI. Hank and Kujo appeared beyond Ice’s shoulders, mouths pinched tight. Ice was talking to everyone, recounting what had happened. Then, he was giving a couple of paramedics the run down. Rattling off her vitals, not that Sam had even realized Ice had taken them. Sam had tunnel vision. Deadly, but he didn’t care. He was focused on Bridgette. On not letting go of her hand. Not letting go of her.
He bent low, brushing his lips across her ear. “Don’t you die on me. Not now. Because I love you, Bridg. And, damn it, we’re going to spend the next fifty years driving each other crazy. Do you hear me? I love you. And you’re going to live so you can tell me you love me, too.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I love you.
Bridgette opened her eyes, a ghostly echo of Sam’s voice filling her head. Her eyelids felt heavy, thick, and it took a while before she was able to blink away the fuzziness blurring the room, finally focusing on the beige-colored walls and the collection of flowers stacked along a narrow ledge. A steady beep sounded behind her, the noise disturbingly familiar. She waited, trying to place the rhythm, when it hit her.
Her heartbeat.
A hospital.
She inhaled as memories shuffled inside her mind, Sam’s words playing in the background like a soundtrack. She’d been pinned against the wall, waiting for Brock to finally let her die, when Sam had shown up. He’d somehow tricked Brock into letting his guard down then…
She groaned, the barrage of disjointed images making her nauseous. It was like an array of snapshots flashing on and off. Sam and Russel trying to save her. Men surrounding her in the kitchen. Voices shouting in the background as flashlights shined in her eyes. There’d been big white lights on the ceiling. Men and women dressed in lab coats and scrubs. A room full of gleaming instruments. Then…
Here she was, laying in a hospital bed, her scattered memories set on repeat. Sam’s words still looping inside her head. Those, she did remember. Vividly. Like a moment out of time where her mind wasn’t burdened by the effects of blood loss or shock. He’d been holding her hand, begging—no, ordering—her to stay with him. To not die. Then he’d said he loved her.
No hesitation. No awkward pauses. As if it was the easiest thing for him to admit.
She took a moment to breathe, to absorb the memory, when she noticed a warm feeling in her right hand. It took her a few seconds to shift her focus—actually look to her right. He was sprawled out in a chair at the side of her bed, one large, calloused hand holding hers. She’d never realized how big his palm was compared to hers until now. Until she stared at their joined hands. Marveled at the way he held hers firmly, yet gently. He could crush her fingers if he wanted to.
After what had felt like an hour focused on their hands, she managed to drag her gaze up his arm, over his shoulder, finally reaching his face. Eyes shut. Muscles lax. It was like staring at a photo.
He didn’t look like a hardened soldier sleeping in the chair, his legs crossed at the ankles, half of one butt cheek off the seat. He made the furniture seem small. Maybe it was. Or maybe she was finally seeing him. No filters. No past memories or future expectations blinding her. Just Sam Montgomery. Ex-Army Ranger, and the man she’d been in love with since she was eighteen years old.
She swallowed. It seemed so obvious, now. That she loved him. That she’d been in love with him all along, and she couldn’t help but wonder why she’d resisted it. Why she hadn’t told him. What she’d been afraid of. Then, his eyelids fluttered, a few fleeting glimpses of blue, before he was staring back at her. Alert. Attention fully on her. And she forgot everything she’d been planning to say. It just vanished. Seared from her brain from the heat in his eyes. He looked like a man on a mission—one he didn’t plan on failing.
Her fingers squeezed reflectively in his, and he bolted upright, leaning forward until his face filled her field of view.
He lifted their joined hands to his lips, placing a soft, sensual kiss on her knuckles. “Welcome back.”
“Sam.” She reached for his face. Was certain she’d lifted her other arm from her lap and angled it toward his jaw. But all that happened was a blinding jolt of pain that danced tiny specks across her vision. Then, a dull roar sounded in her head, and the scenery swam.
“Whoa, easy there, slugger.” Sam’s other hand was on her chest, pressing her into the mattress. Keeping her down without causing more pain. “Your shoulder’s a mess. Will be for a while, so…don’t try to move it. In fact, don’t try to move, period. At least, not without help for a bit. Okay?”
She nodded. She’d heard most of what he’d said until she’d found herself staring at his mouth. Watching the way it moved. Imagining it sliding over hers, his tongue softly stroking between her lips.
Sam smiled. He was breathtaking when he smiled. “I recognize that look. And you’re a few weeks away from that kind of fun.”
She frowned. “You…” She cleared her throat. God, her voice sounded like a combination of sandpaper and metal filings. “You can’t…kiss me for a few weeks?”
He chuckled, nuzzling her nose. “Kissing, we can manage.”
He paused a moment, his nose lightly brushing the side of hers before his mouth settled on her lips. He moved slowly, as if he thought any quick motion would hurt her. His lips molded to hers, linger
ing on the edge of sweetness before finally opening in invitation. She accepted, sweeping her tongue into his mouth—sighing as everything clicked into place, like tumblers inside a lock. Sam moaned, lifting one hand and gently cupping the back of her head.
She let him brace her. Let him lead, smiling up at him when he finally eased back. The rest of the room faded in the background, her entire world focused on the blue of his eyes.
He caressed her cheek, shaking his head in mock frustration. “You’ll have me breaking all the rules the doctors wrote down if you keep looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
His lips quirked. “Like you just found what you’d been searching for.”
The tension bled from her muscles, and she knew he was right. That it was time. “Maybe because I have. I hadn’t even realized I’d been looking. That there was something missing. But…” She smiled. “Didn’t plan on it being six-feet of muscled Army Ranger, though.”
His eyes narrowed as he reclaimed his seat. “Hold that thought for a moment. First, how much do you remember?”
She swallowed, praying she hadn’t fabricated Sam telling her he loved her. That it wasn’t fantasy intruding on the ugliness of reality. “Everything, I think. Right up until you and Russel showed up. It gets…blurry after that.”
“Understandable. You lost over a liter of blood. I’m surprised you were even conscious.” He smiled. “From the look of the house, you caught Brock off-guard.”
“He thought I’d just stand there. Frozen.”
“But you weren’t going down without a fight, were you?”
“I didn’t think I’d live to prosecute him, so I wanted to make damn sure someone else could.” She gave his hand a squeeze. “I knew you’d eventually show up there, though I didn’t expect you that soon. Was it just a lucky guess I’d go back there?”
He lifted his hand, grazing it over the pendant resting against her chest. “I used my Hail Mary.”
“The necklace.” She shook her head. “I’d forgotten it was a tracking device. I’m glad you gave it to me.”
