Page 67 of Raff
Seconds stretched to minutes, minutes to hours, as I did nothing but watch York strangle the other man.
There was a fierce concentration in York’s face, and his lips moved ever so slightly, but no sound came out.
I could only assume he was counting.
Not sure what else to do, mentally, I started counting with him.
When I reached five minutes, I watched as York’s arms suddenly relaxed, and the man’s body slumped, lifeless, to the floor.
York himself was panting, sweating, shaking with the effort of, I assumed, killing the man.
He reached down, pressing his hand to the man’s neck, waiting. Then he did the same under his nose. Then back to his neck.
To, I guess, confirm the kill.
Only when he was satisfied did he lower the man fully down and look over at me.
“Fuck,” he whispered to himself.
I guess I looked as terrible as I felt.
Everything seemed to be stabbing and throbbing with pain.
“Okay. Listen to me,” he said, moving over toward me. “I need you to stay in this bathroom for a minute. Quietly. Okay?”
I nodded.
What other choice did I have?
“Why?”
“I have someone over,” he explained, glancing back toward the hallway. “And she can’t know what just happened here.”
Because he’d killed a man.
In self-defense, sure, but still.
I nodded again.
“I am going to get her out of here. And then I’m going to come back for you, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Don’t look at him,” he demanded when my gaze moved hopelessly in that direction. “And don’t you fucking dare feel sorry for him. If you were looking at what I’m looking at, you’d know he had it coming.”
I glanced back at York.
“Where’s Raff?”
“I’m calling him. He will meet us at the clinic.”
The clinic?
But even as I thought it, every ache seemed to intensify.
Yeah, the clinic seemed like a smart idea.
“Can you scoot back for me?” he asked as he reached for the door.
