Page 60 of Written with Regret (The Regret Duet 1)
My eyes flew open just in time to see him land a kick in his dad’s stomach then scramble drunkenly to his feet. I was able to breathe again, but I was also left completely exposed.
Hot tears rolled down my cheeks as the gunman went tumbling down. My hero took early control, landing his fists across his face. But the bloodstain on his back from the bullet that had gone through us both was growing by the second.
My side was on fire, but I had to move. My boy wasn’t going to win this fight. His dad was too strong. But there was nowhere to go. The way out was to get past them, and as they exchanged punches and banged into walls before rolling onto the floor, it was impossible.
I found my voice with another scream when the sound of the gun rang out once more, deafening me all over again. I scrambled on all fours, slipping in my own blood as I wedged myself into a corner.
The fighting continued.
The grunts. The groans. The sound of my sobs.
He was losing.
He was on his back.
That man was going to kill my boy, the only safety I had left. And just like with my mother, I had no idea how to save him.
Drawing my legs up to my chest, I begged the universe, the stars, the gods, and Jesus himself to help us.
And then, just as quickly as my hero had arrived when I’d been lying on the floor in the middle of the food court, holding my dead mother’s hand, our savior appeared in the form of the big tattooed guy I’d seen hiding behind one of the tables.
Blood roared in my ears as I watched him enter the kitchen. He no longer looked like a frightened child, but rather a murderous man on a mission. His face was tight and his eyes were hollow pits, but his steps were filled with dangerous purpose that broke the dam inside me, flooding my system with hope.
Without hesitation, he dove into the fighting, tackling the gunman off my boy.
I tried to keep up, but it was all happening so fast.
My boy shouted for someone to get the gun.
His father cussed.
But the tattooed man said nothing.
Fists against flesh, heads against tile, and then a second later, just as it had started, a single gunshot ended it all.
The room fell silent, my pulse pounding in my ears was the only sound I heard.
The tattooed guy rolled off the pile first, the gun in his hand.
And I waited, holding my breath and praying to gods I wasn’t sure existed that my boy would be next.
I rose to my knees, searching for any sign of life.
But he was so torturously still.
As far as I knew, I’d lost my entire family that day. But I still had him and I needed him to be okay.
If it was truly over, I needed him to be okay.
“Oh, God,” I cried when he suddenly pushed up to his knees—swaying and unbalanced—revealing the gunman dead beneath him, a puddle of red haloing around him.
My boy’s face was covered in blood, and it had already swelled to the point that he was unrecognizable. But his blue eyes felt like spotlights when they landed on me. “Are you…” He fell over to the side, catching himself on a hand, his other going around his bloody midsection.
My whole body shook, but nothing could have stopped me from getting to him. I rushed toward him and threw my arms around his neck, holding him up as he tried to fall over.
He didn’t return my embrace as he burst into loud sobs, his body shaking with every breath. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”
He’d saved my life. I had no idea what he could possibly be sorry for.
“Stop,” I choked out during my own hysterical fit of relief. “Please stop.”
He never stopped though.
Not until the paramedics rushed in and dragged us apart.CAVENThe sound of Rosalee’s cry hit me hard but it was Hadley’s scream that shot straight to my central nervous system.
“Caven!”
I was up off the couch before my eyes found them across the room. Hadley was on her knees, beside the table, her face so pale and filled with fear that it nearly stopped me in my tracks. It was my baby girl crying in her arms that pushed me faster.
“What happened?” I barked.
Hadley shook her head, her eyes unfocused as she pushed to her feet and lifted our daughter in my direction.
“Daddy!” Rosalee cried as I plucked her into my arms. “I fell down.” Blood seeped from her mouth, spiking my pulse, but she was alive and crying.
After years of practice, I could deal with the rest.
After marching her to the kitchen, I set her on the counter and snatched a paper towel from the dispenser. I dampened it before pressing it to her upper lip to clear away some of the blood.
