Page 3 of Leave Me (Touch of Death 2)
Una flushes the bullet hole before pouring something else on it. It stings, but truthfully, the pain has all just blended into one endless ache now. Opening my eyes, I glance down and watch her delicate movements. She finally stitches up the wound, and by the time she finishes, the blanket beneath me is soaked, the snowy white now tainted a bright crimson. It seems apt.
Red.
Everything is red right now, tinged by rage and confusion that has me in its clutches. I have to get a handle on this volatile sensation. My usual, rational self is compromised, and it’s concerning, to say the least. I force all thoughts of Adelina from my mind and inhale deep breaths.
When Una’s done, she pours liquid over the wound again, and I hiss as what feels like acid bubbles on my flesh. As soon as she’s done with the bandaging, I sit up.
“Sasha?” She stares at me with hesitation in her gaze, and I spare her a glance. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.”
Una tilts her to the side, those violet eyes probing, digging beneath the surface easily. White-blond hair falls over her shoulder, and I find myself staring at the patches of crimson that streak the strands. “You’re angry.”
“She shot me.”
“You’re never angry. It’s not the first time you’ve taken a bullet.”
No, but the last time I was shot by someone I trusted, it was Una. I was fifteen years old, and she was ordered to do it. “I’m fine.” I lie, and she cocks a brow, her lips slanting into a smirk.
“Is it because she got the better of you?”
“No.”
Her eyes narrow. “Did she say anything, or did she just shoot you and leave?”
“She said sorry. Before she shot me.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying so hard to see it from Adelina’s point of view. “I think…she believes that she is being selfless.”
“Well, that bullet I just pulled out of your leg suggests otherwise.”
I drop my hand and duck my head. “I would have stopped her. In her head, perhaps it was her only choice.”
Una sucks in a drawn-out breath. “She’s not worth your anger, Sasha. She’s just a girl you were contracted to protect. You don’t owe her anything.”
I meet her hard gaze. “You and I both know that’s not true.”
Una sucks in a deep breath. “She doesn’t know that, though.”
“It doesn’t change the fact,” I argue.
“Adelina knows what Enrique wants with her. She still went to him, so let her go.”
My spine stiffens, and I find myself jumping to Adelina’s defense for reasons I can’t explain to myself. “She never wanted to go to him. She did it to save us all.”
“We don’t need saving,” Una spits.
“I know that!” My frustration forms a vice around my throat. “Enrique didn’t bring the Elite here for us; he did it to scare her. Perhaps he knows her better than we thought.” That notion irritates me. I don’t want him to know a single thing about her. With a grunt, I push to my feet, ignoring the pain that shoots up my thigh as soon as I bear weight. If I keep talking about this, I’m afraid Una will see my weakness for Adelina all too clearly.
Past the heavy curtains, I can see the pristine lawns beyond the window. It’s still dark, but the security lights dance over the outlines of fallen corpses. Sprinklers methodically arc over the lawns, the droplets of water catching in the light like glitter. My eyes skirt the boundary, scoping the shadows beyond the light where an enemy may lie in wait. Nero’s men are moving the bodies, one by one, loading them into the backs of several SUV’s. It’s silent.
I’ve always found a certain peace in the silence that follows violence, as though the world were collectively holding its breath, paying respect to the fallen. There was a time when I would have felt that respect for the dead Elite that now scatter the Hamptons grass. Even as our enemies, I’ve always given them that because I was once one of them. I know what they’ve suffered to become as they are. All that sacrifice and training, just…wasted. From one soldier to another, I could always appreciate the simple act of one man dying while the other was left standing. It’s an honorable death.
Now though, I feel nothing but resentment toward the dead men and women. The Elite once stood for something—honor, and above all, professionalism. They are supposed to be impartial, without prejudice, and certainly without personal vendettas. They should be exactly as their name suggests—the elite, the best. We once stood as gods amongst men because we were better, more disciplined, and without human frailties and failures. And yet, here they are, dying for Enrique Bianchi, for something as trivial as a grudge. The Elite were always expensive, but they could not be bought. Now… There’s something unsavory about them selling out to a man like Bianchi.
