On the ground mixing with her hair, on Griff’s shirt, on his hands. Hands that won’t stop shaking, because her blood isn’t stopping. It flows like a river, seeping through the makeshift bandage on her arm, through Sal’s clamped fingers.
He squeezes Alabama’s hand, dying for her to squeeze back, to show him she’s still here with him. She’s got to be.
Please, God.Griff dips his head, his eyes on Alabama’s gray face. On her still-rising chest, her breathing shallow and ragged. The sight of her unmoving and unconscious fills Griff with a dread he’s never known. He can’t lose her. Not again.
The sudden flash of a camera has Griff whipping his head up.
Motherfuckers.
Rage and fury gnaw at his nerves and he wants to launch himself to his feet, to find the lurking photographer and rip him to shreds. But he can’t. He can’t do any of that because he can’t leave Alabama. He could kill someone, most likely himself if this doesn’t end like it needs to, if this doesn’t end with Alabama’s heart pumping strong and her eyes opening.
Another flash has Griff at his absolute breaking point.
He’s never felt so fucking powerless in his life. Powerless to stop the blood, to protect Alabama, to take her pain and make it his.
“Goddamnnit, stop,” he says, his body shaking with raw agony. His fists curl against the knees of his jeans. “Please, just fuckin’ stop. Leave her alone. Leave her the fuck alone.”
Leaning down, he tries to wrap his arms around Alabama, to shield her from any further photos, but that’s when two pairs of legs and boots settle in front of him. He looks up to see Jace and Seth, their bodies providing a cover for Alabama from the photographers.
All Griff can do is nod his thanks, his throat so tight from emotion he can’t even get the words out.
The scream of a siren pierces the night air.
Griff’s head snaps up. “Fuckin’ finally,” he bites out, the anxiety in his chest building when he sees the red and blue lights of the ambulance.
All he can do is stand there, fists knotted, numb and helpless as the paramedics work on Alabama. He wants to fight to be by her side, to know what’s happening, to demand they fucking fix her, but he knows that won’t help Alabama any. He has to wait. Has to wait and see if his life means anything to him anymore.
As he watches Alabama get lifted onto the stretcher, he hears a sharp, shrill voice.
Nikki.
She’s in cuffs, being led to a police cruiser by a female cop.
Fury grips Griff in a blind rage.
With two fast boot-stomping strides, he crosses that parking lot. Nikki looks up. When she sees who it is, she flinches, trying to move closer to the police officer for protection.
“Sir,” the cop says. “I’m afraid I have to ask you to back up ...”
Griff gets close, ignoring the cop. His body shakes with an absolute feral rage, a feeling primitive and protective. He meets the terrified eyes of Nikki, who’s trembling against the cop’s hold. “You’re lucky you’re a woman.”
He says it calmly and quietly, but it has all the effect of an atom bomb.
Nikki pales and glances down at the ground. But Griff stands his ground, staring at her. He means it. If Nikki were a man, he’d beat him to death where he stands. Without hesitation, with relish. Griff doesn’t give a shit that the bullet was meant for him. It hit the woman he loves. The woman he finally found again, and if she’s taken from him ... if he loses her because of this ... because of him ...
“You’re lucky,” he repeats, teeth gritted, fists clenched.
A sharp whistle has him turning.
Luke Kincaid’s pointing at the ambulance where Alabama’s being loaded up. “You’re gonna want to get on that, Greyson,” he shouts. “Now.”
Griff turns and rushes across the parking lot.
She has to be okay. She has to.