Filed To Story: Craving The Wrong Brother Book PDF Free by Elysian Sparrow
And then suddenly-
Silence.
Everything stops like someone flipped a switch.
No more bullets. No more shouting. Just the loud ring in my ears and the uneven thud of my heart.
I keep still.
Are they all dead?
Please, God no. Surely the gunfire has drawn attention. The police must be on the way. The building’s not exactly soundproof, and it’s not an entirely closed-off area. Someone had to have called 911 by now. Someone had to have heard.
I stay crouched, eyes shut tight enough to see stars. I’m not moving. Not until someone drags me out kicking and screaming. I can’t bring myself to look. I don’t want to know who’s still breathing and who isn’t. I can’t look at Knox, especially if he’s lying in a pool of his own blood.
No. I shake my head so hard my neck cracks. I won’t let my brain go there.
Knox can’t be dead. He can’t be.
And then I hear him.
“It’s okay, Bunny,” he says. “You can come out.”
My head shoots up so fast I get dizzy.
Knox.
I peek around the edge of the filing cabinet and see him standing there. He’s still got his gun raised, still aiming it at the stack of pallets where Mateo is hiding. He seems calm. But his shirt-God, his shirt is soaked on one side with something dark and wet that can only be one thing.
Blood.
He’s leaning sideways, favoring his right side as though the wound is affecting his balance. But he’s alive. On his feet.
The gun in my hand drops to the ground with a thud I barely hear over the rush of relief flooding my system. I scramble out from behind the cabinet, feet slipping on blood and dust and spent shell casings that roll under my shoes.
I reach him in seconds. My hands press to his side where the fabric is darkest and wettest. The blood sticks to my fingers.
“You’ve been shot,” I say.
“I’m fine,” he answers, but he flinches whenever I touch him.
He knew. He knew he’d take a bullet even before he shot that man behind me. Mateo had been pointing a gun at him, after all.
“You-“I shake my head, not sure of what to say.
He looks down at me with steady eyes, like I’m the only one in this room.
Beside us, I hear Finn groaning.
“I think I just broke my broken arm again,” he says as Hunter helps him up, the chair still partially attached to his legs by rope. “Next time you provoke a psychopath, Knox, maybe tell him you’ve disowned me first. I’d rather not be caught in another shootout this century.”
“Would you shut up?” Serena snaps from her position under the stairs. “It’s your fault you got captured, coming to my house and making stupid requests at night. Nobody wanted to kidnap you, idiot.”
“I would appreciate it if everyone could keep their voices down,” Soraya says as Hunter moves to her next, working at the ropes around her wrists. “My brain’s been ringing since that first shot was fired.”
Finn grunts as he tries to stand, nearly toppling over in the process. “It wouldn’t have gotten this far if Knox had just said sorry like a normal person instead of turning everything into some sort of masculine pride contest. He cares about no one else but himself.”
A loud slap lands on his face.
Finn reels backward, hand flying to his cheek.
“Say one more word and the next cast will be for your jaw,” Hunter says. a
Finn stays quiet after that, but his glare is a s all attitude and wounded pride. He rubs his cheek and mutters something under his breath that sounds like cursing in three different languages.
I turn back to Knox, whose attention hasn’t wavered from the pallets where Mateo is still hiding.
Knox’s men are scattered around the room, some standing and breathing hard, some slumped against walls or columns, all injured or catching their breath or both. They are all waiting, looking to Knox for direction.
Mateo is still alive. Still crouched behind that barricade of his. I can see part of his shadow through a gap in the pallets and can hear his labored breathing. And Knox seems to get weaker every passing moment.
“We need to get you to a hospital,” I whisper, pressing harder against his wound. The blood keeps coming, seeping through my fingers no matter how much pressure I apply.
“No hospital,” Knox says. “My men will patch me up. Besides, I promised you the honor, remember?”
He slides his gun into my hand.
“Mateo has run out of bullets. Now, it’s your turn to be generous and lend him some. Stick them right in his chest.”
“-“
“Just like I showed you,” he continues, his eyes never leaving the pallets. “Don’t hesitate. Don’t look at his face if you can help it. Just pull the trigger and make it count.”
My fingers tighten around the grip.
Knox speaks again, louder this time. “It’s over, Mateo. Time to come out.”
Mateo doesn’t show, neither does he say a word.
“I know you’re hurt,” Knox continues, his tone almost conversational. “I know you’re bleeding. Make this easy on yourself.”
Still nothing.
“Shoot the box,” Knox tells me, nodding toward the pallets.
I raise the gun and aim at the largest box I can see. Then I pull the trigger.
The shot hits the cardboard with a satisfying thunk, and Mateo swears loudly, a string of profanity that would make a sailor blush.
“Hold your fire!” he yells. “I’m coming out! Don’t shoot!”
Slowly, he rises from behind his makeshift fortress. His hands are behind his back in a gesture that looks almost sheepish. His legs are unsteady, wobbling without his cane.
“Show your hands,” Knox commands. “Both of them. Now.”
“Okay. Okay.” Mateo raises his right hand. The tiny silver handgun he used to shoot Knox falls from his fingers and clatters to the floor.
He starts to lift his other hand, and before I can see what’s in it, Knox lunges.
Not at Mateo.
At me.
Knox’s body slams into mine, knocking me backward.
The grenade hits the floor and explodes.
It’s loud. One second, I’m standing there holding a gun that feels too heavy in my hands, and the next, the world shatters into a million razor sharp pieces.
The pressure knocks the breath out of my lungs. It’s just… pain. Pure, undiluted agony. And ringing. My ears feel like they’ve been stuffed with cotton soaked in gasoline and set on fire at the same time.
Everything goes white, then gray, then a muddy brown that might be blood or dirt or both.
I don’t know how long I lie there. Could be seconds. Could be minutes. Could be hours for all I know. Time doesn’t seem to work the same way anymore. The dust is as thick as fog, coating my lips, my eyes, the inside of my mouth until I can barely breathe without choking. It tastes like concrete and twisted metal and something that might be fire or fear.
Knox is lying on top of me like a human blanket, his body a shield between me and whatever hell just broke loose in this basement.
He’s not moving.
“Knox,” I say. It comes out hoarse. “Knox!”
Still nothing.
I push at him, hands trembling, smearing dust and blood across his shirt. He groans. It’s the sound of someone fighting their way back to consciousness through layers of hurt. I never imagined that such a sound could be this relieving to my ears.
“Oh, God,” I whisper, and I start crying before I realize it’s happening. “You’re alive. You’re alive. Thank God, you’re alive.”
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