Chapter 8 - The Safehouse
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Christopher collapsed against the mahogany desk, gripping his bleeding shoulder.
I didn't hesitate. The panic vanished, replaced by pure adrenaline. I rushed forward, ripping the silk scarf from my neck, and pressed it hard against his wound.
“Keep pressure on it,” I ordered, pushing his good hand against the makeshift bandage.
“You’re bossy when you’re terrified,” Christopher grunted, a faint, pained smile touching his lips.
“Shut up and walk,” I snapped, wrapping my arm around his waist to support his weight.
Dante burst into the room, his suit torn and covered in plaster dust, his weapon drawn. “Boss! The perimeter is breached, but we held the main hall. We have a black SUV idling in the underground garage. We need to move.”
“Take us to the harbor safehouse,” Christopher ordered.
We moved rapidly through the hidden corridors of the compound, descending into the dark garage. We piled into the armored SUV, Dante throwing the vehicle into reverse and tearing out into the rainy Boston night.
I sat in the backseat with Christopher, keeping brutal pressure on his wound. He was pale, his head resting against the tinted window, his breathing shallow.
“You're losing too much blood,” I said, my hands slick and trembling.
“It’s a clean through-and-through,” Christopher rasped. “I’ve had worse.”
“You’re an idiot,” I cried, tears mixing with the blood on my hands.
He slowly turned his head to look at me. In the flashes of passing streetlights, his dark eyes were intensely focused on my face. He reached out with his good hand, his bloody fingers gently brushing the tears from my cheek.
“I told you I was a monster, Emily,” he whispered. “You saw what I did back there. You saw what I am.”
“I saw a man protecting his home,” I replied fiercely.
The SUV squealed to a halt outside a nondescript, rundown warehouse near the shipping docks. Dante ushered us inside, through a series of heavy steel doors, until we entered a surprisingly luxurious, fully stocked bunker apartment.
“I’ll call the underground doctor,” Dante said, pulling out a burner phone. “I’m setting a perimeter outside.”
Dante left us alone in the living room.
I helped Christopher onto the leather sofa and ran to the bathroom, grabbing a first aid kit. I cut away his ruined shirt, exposing his heavily muscled, tattooed chest.
As I cleaned the blood away from the wound, my hands shook. Christopher reached up and caught my wrists, stopping me.
May you like
“Emily,” he breathed, the pain in his voice entirely unmasked.
He pulled me down. I didn't resist. My lips crashed against his, tasting like whiskey, copper, and desperation. It was a kiss born of pure adrenaline and survival, terrifying and absolute.
