Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 26999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
I had to order those supplies.
Chapter Nineteen
I hang up the phone to the sound of ripped material, to find Creed sitting up and obviously creating his own tourniquet. It’s a smart move, one I would not be able to do without scissors, but surprising considering he was about to pass out a few minutes before. He’s literally sitting up, and moving, albeit stiffly, as if he’s semi-fine.
“I can help,” I say, closing the space between us, and pushing to my feet, but he’s already wrapping the sheet around his body.
“He’s standing outside your door,” he growls, pulling the newly created bandage snuggly around him.
I don’t have to ask who “he” is or how he knows, as he’s already proven his skills have expanded beyond what I knew them to be before our split. As for who—he means Brock. And the idea that he’s come back is not a good one, not when Creed is all but bleeding to death.
“He can’t get in,” I remind him, shocked that the very idea had somehow created this burst of adrenaline in Creed.
“And what about when you open the door?” he challenges.
“You’ll know if he’s there. And if he is, we’ll figure it out. I need you to lie back down.”
He doesn’t move. He is stone and steel and seconds tick by before his jaw flexes and he says, “He’s walking away.”
Relief washes over me. “Does that mean you’ll lie back down?”
He doesn’t move and I sit down next to him, inspecting his bandage, where blood seeps but is no longer out of control. “I should have bandaged you up sooner,” I murmur, though he’s better now, and I hope that means the GTECH healing process is fighting against the bullet.
“You’re not going to lie down, are you?”
He doesn’t look at me, but I can feel his awareness of me up close and personal, as he says, “Not yet.”
I’m aware of my nearness as well, of how much I have feared such moments with him and craved them as well. “You think he’s coming back,” I say, and it’s not a question. He’s too unwilling to rest to believe anything else.
He glances down at me. “He’s not coming back.” His tone is absolute. “He made a decision to stay the course, until he feels your father out.”
The certainty in him about Brock’s intimate thoughts stuns me. “How do you know this?”
“The wind.”
I blink incredulously. “We’re inside the building.”
“It’s here. It’s almost impossible to keep it away.”
“Through the windows?”
“Yes. Windows. Doors. It’s here, Addie.”
“And it talks to you.”
“You know it does.”
“But not like it does the others.”
“Not like it does the others,” he confirms. “Does that scare you?”
“Everything about you should scare me at this point, Creed.”
“And yet here you sit?”
“You came to me.”
“You didn’t kick me out.”
“You’re injured. You could die.”
“I’m not going to die. That would mean I was done with you, Addie, and I’m not done with you. Not even close.”
My defenses bristle. “You already decided you were done when you walked away.”
There’s a knock on the door and eager for escape I pop to my feet. Creed catches my hand. “I was never done with you, Addie. Never.”
Another knock sounds. “I have to get this and you need medical attention.”
His jaw grits but he releases me.
I hurry toward the door and by the time I’m there, he is as well, flattening against the wall and motioning for me to open the door. He’s better now, already healing and I wonder if he was wrong about the bullet still being inside him. There is hope in this idea, in his ability to fight if he had to, but only a small amount, as he is far from himself.
I hesitate to open the door.
“It’s not Brock,” he promises me. “I’m only here as a precaution.”
I glance up at him, my eyes meeting his, and I know he must see, and feel, the relief his presence brings me. Creed might be bleeding, but he’s still lethal and right now, he’s standing by this door when he shouldn’t be standing at all, to protect me.
It’s confusing and I tell myself it could be all about agendas, but it doesn’t feel like an agenda at all. It feels like the man I love protecting me, and the ease at which I believe that terrifies me. I give him a nod and open the door. A youngish dark-haired man is standing there with my supplies on a cart. “Can I bring this in for you ma’am?” he asks.
“No,” I say quickly. “I can handle it.” I reach for the bottle of booze and a bag of supplies he has for me and set them on the floor in front of Creed. “I just need the towels and I’m all set.”
The man hands them to me, I set them on the floor, and then quickly sign the ticket and fill in the promised tip. He’s giddy when he walks away and I’m quick to shut and lock the door again. It’s only then that I realize Creed’s head is tilted backward and his eyes are shut, blood dripping from his bandage. He’s right. The bullet is still inside him and I don’t know how he’s standing. He’s fighting a losing battle to heal until it comes out.