Page 79 of Mile High Ex's Dad
Not like in movies. Just a violent hitch of his body, like something invisible slammed into him hard enough to throw him back a step. His phone hits the floor. I stare at him, not understanding, until I see the blood blooming through his shirt.
Then I understand all at once.
“No.”
He grabs the nearest man by the throat and drives him into the wall so hard a painting crashes down beside them. Another shot. Another burst of sound. I scream his name, but he doesn’t seem to hear me. He’s all motion now, brutal and fast and terrifying, even hurt, even bleeding, his whole body still built to destroy.
Then the second man comes at him from the side. Viktor turns too late, and the knife goes in low.
I see it. See the body of it disappear into him. See his face change, not with fear, not even with pain exactly, but with that awful blank shock the body has before the mind catches up.
He kills the man anyway. He kills both of them and then takes one step toward me.
Just one. Then another.
His hand presses hard to his side. Blood runs through his fingers. His white shirt is almost red now, sticking to him. He looks bigger and stranger somehow, too much blood for a body like his, too much damage for a man who seems made to never fail.
“Viktor.” My voice is shaking so hard I barely recognize it.
He reaches for me.
Then his knees give out. He goes down heavily, one shoulder hitting the carpet first, then the rest of him, and the sound of it is so real and ugly it rips something out of me. I’m on the floor beside him in an instant, my hands everywhere at once, his face, his chest, the wound, trying to stop blood that won’t stop, trying to hold him together with sheer panic.
“No, no, no, stay with me, stay with me?—”
His eyes find mine.
That’s the worst part. His eyes are not empty. Not gone. Just fading. Still him, still trying to hold on, and I can see the effort of it. I can see him losing.
“I’m here,” I tell him, sobbing now. “I’m right here.”
His mouth moves, but I can’t hear the words over the ringing in my head. My hands are slippery. My whole body is shaking. Blood is everywhere. It’s on my dress, my arms, my knees, and still it keeps coming.
Then his head turns slightly under my hand.
That’s when I wake up screaming.
For one awful second, I don’t know where I am. My heart is slamming, my nightclothes twisted around my legs, the dream still clinging to me so hard I can almost smell blood.
Then I see him.
Viktor is sitting in the chair by the window, one ankle crossed over the other, jacket gone, shirt open at the throat, the room gone dim around him with evening gathered at the glass. He looks up the second I bolt upright.
“How long was I out?” I ask, my voice wrecked.
He gets to his feet at once and comes toward the bed. “Long enough.”
That’s not an answer, but I’m too shaken to argue. I wipe at my face, angry at the tears and even angrier that he’s seeing them.
“Did you have a bad dream?” he asks.
I laugh once, shakily. “You think?”
He sits on the edge of the bed without hesitation, close enough for me to feel the warmth coming off him. “Tell me.”
I shake my head. “No.”
His hand comes up and brushes a tear from my cheek with the back of his knuckles. “All right.”
