26
Wren begins to pound on the door, throwing her whole body weight against the wood but the thing doesn’t budge.
“Rory!” she screams, “open the fucking door.”
Shock and anger course through my system, “Move.” I order.
She does as she is told, moving to the left as I position myself in front of the door and kick it, once, twice, hearing the wood crack and splinter under the force, on the third kick the thing swings open. I don’t enter straight away, I push Wren behind my body and withdraw my gun, entering with it leveled ahead of me and ready to be used.
She fucking shot Ryker.
The smell of blood, metallic and coppery permeates the air of the room and I find Ryker on his knees, leaning forward with blood pooling in front of him.
Only when I step further in, it isn’t his blood staining the carpet, but Aurora’s.
She lays in the middle of the floor, a hole in her temple where she turned the gun on herself.
“I couldn’t stop her.”
A scream lashes through the room, as sharp as a whip, “no, no, no,” Wren sobs, dropping down beside her friend, knees hitting the puddle of crimson seeping out the side of Aurora’s head, “Call an ambulance!”
“Little bird,” I try. There was no coming back from this.
“Call a fucking ambulance!”
“She’s dead, Wren.” Ryker says.
“No!” Wren manically shakes her head, pressing her hands to the wound as if that’ll somehow bring her back. “She’s not, she can’t be.”
Sobs make her voice quake and she sucks in air, trying to fill her lungs as grief robs her of oxygen. Her face is crumpled, eyes wide and pleading, tears streaking down her cheeks.
Closing my eyes, I sigh.
“Little bird,” I soothe, stepping behind her to rest my hand on her shoulder, smoothing her sweat dampened hair away from her forehead.
She collapses back against my legs, blood coating her hands and arms and legs and she screams. Her cry hits me straight to the soul, earth shattering and grief stricken in a way I have never and will never want to experience.
Her pure, unfiltered emotion feels as if it’ll shatter windows, her cries no doubt heard throughout the house. No one comes though, not Kingston, not Isobel, knowing when to interfere and when not to.
Carefully, I drag Wren from the floor, holding her to me as she buries her face into my chest and continues to cry. Bloody handprints stain my shirt, dirt and ash mixing with the crimson. She lets me guide her from the room and I signal for Ryker to get some men in here to clean this up before I shut us away in our bedroom.
She doesn’t make it to the bed, instead choosing to sit in the middle of the carpet, bringing her knees to her chest as if to contain everything inside of her. She wraps her arms around her legs, holding on tight as she rocks, staring vacantly at a spot on the wall.
“Let’s get this blood off you,” I say to her, “Okay?”
She nods once, mute and follows me to the bathroom, stripping from her blood drenched clothes which land with a wet slap onto the tiles and then she steps into shower before the water has even warmed. The water sliding from her skin is tinged red, circling at her feet before it drains down the plug, but she continues to stare at the wall, arms limp at her sides, letting the water hit her.
I don’t undress as I climb in with her, turning the temperature up a bit further to try and rid her of the goose bumps that have taken purchase on her skin. I help wash the blood from her skin, my clothes sticking to my body but she doesn’t appear to be here, stuck inside her head.
When she’s cleaned, I guide her out, wrap her in a towel and sit her on the bed. I’ll do everything if I need to.
“He did this.” She says as I come back from the wardrobe with a fresh pair of leggings and one of my shirts.
“Valentine,” she affirms, eyes finally meeting mine. “This is his fault.”
I nod.
“Where is the guy?” She asks. “The one from earlier.”