Just as fast as it all started, everything comes to a sudden stand-still. A deafening silence falls all around, spoiled by the violent tempo of my heartbeats throbbing in my neck.
“Layla!” Spades yells, and furious tapping on the keyboard follows. One, two, three tries. “Fuck!” He bangs something—his fist, I think—on the door. “Open up! Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I rasp, my throat rough as if I suffer from a nasty infection.
And then Dante arrives.
His boomingLayla! shakes the foundations of the house. His rushed footsteps clap on the stairs. Two more pairs of shoes follow suit. I put the gun down, trying to hoist myself up, but more tapping on the keyboard halts my efforts. Dante enters, a gun in his hand, worry on his face,bloodon his shirt.
In a flash, I go back in time. I’m no longer in the closet, no longer an adult. I’m seven, in Frank’s house on the day my paralyzing fear of blood started.
I stand in the doorway to the kitchen, watching Dante. He sits on the table, his white t-shirt red, face white, twisted with pain.
“Get her out of here, Jess!” Daddy screams, yanking every cabinet door open. “Fuck! Where’s the first aid kit in this shithole?!”
My chin trembles when tears spill from my eyes. I want to run and hug Dante, but my legs won’t budge.
He turns to look at me too. He’s no longer frowning. Now, a small smile crosses his lips. “It’s okay, little bug.” He tugs his leather jacket closer to cover the bloody t-shirt. “Don’t cry. I’m fine.”
I sniffle, wiping my runny nose with the back of my hand, nodding vigorously. Tears still stream down my cheeks, but I know I have to be strong, or Daddy will scream and call me a wuss again.
That evening, I cried into my pillow for hours hoping Dante would be okay. I must’ve pushed those memories out of my system; buried them somewhere deep because thinking about him in pain was too hard. He was the only person in my life to show me any form of affection back then.
And he still is now.
He crosses the room, helps me up, and pulls me into his warm arms. “I’m here.” He takes my face in his hands. “You’re okay. You’re fine, Star. It’s over.”
I cling to the safety he offers. He acts calm, but the urgency of his touch and the way his eyes scan every inch of my body betray just how worried he is.
With a kiss on my head, he huddles me to his side and turns to Spades. “Everyone okay?”
My gaze travels further into the bedroom, and my barely regained poise snaps like a dry twig. I stand there, motionless, eyes trained on the hole in the forehead of a man lying on the floor. Blood seeps from the wound, marking the cream carpet with crimson stains. My stomach somersaults back. I can’t move; I can’t say a single word, despite channeling effort into remaining in control of my emotions while my mind traps me in a dark corner.
“Two dead,” Spades says in a rueful tone. “Cai and Rookie both got hit, but nothing major. They’ll be okay.”
“Get Carlton over here,” Dante orders, moving his attention back to me. “Hey, don’t look.”
But that’s just it... the first thing anyone does when told not to look islook. I can’t avert my gaze until Dante curls his finger under my chin, forcing my eyes on him. Simultaneously, he steps into my line of sight, blocking the gruesome view.
“Layla. Eyes on me. I’ll get you out of here. We’ll stay at a hotel until the house is back in order.”
He’s focused on walking me out of the house and down to the garage. My eyes fall shut to make things easier but fly open once the image of that man’s lifeless body bleeding onto the cream carpet flashes before my eyes.
Dante squeezes my hand tighter. “That’s exactly why I didn’t ask you to close your eyes.”
I take one cautious step at a time. Dante walks backward, steering me so I won’t trip over dead bodies. We’re downstairs when the door opens, and my head snaps in that direction. Wrong choice. Blood is everywhere. It looks as if someone tipped a bucketful over the floor and walls. My head starts swimming, and I hold my breath, transfixed.
Dante grabs my face to turn my head away from the horror-movie scene. “Breathe, baby. You’re fine. Just breathe.”
I nod vigorously, gritting my teeth
“Good girl.” His lips on my forehead work like Novocain.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Layla
Igasp, closing my teeth on Dante’s shoulder. He leans over me, one hand entangled in my hair, the other on my hip, lips on my neck as he thrusts his hips back and forth in a slow, passionate beat. His fingers dig into my flesh, and hooded eyes watch me in-between kisses. The quiet rustling of bed sheets, Dante’s low, throaty growls, and my almost inaudible moans create a stimulating atmosphere that fuels our desire.