52
CORA
The next time I open my eyes, I’m outside.
A cool breeze whispers across my overheated skin. I feel marginally more coherent. Coherent enough to recognize the strong arm around my waist, at least.
“Ivan.” It takes real effort to say his name. I try to stand on my own feet, but I fall more firmly into the hard cliff of his chest. “Am I—”
“Let me get you out of here.” He pats my waist, his hand spread across my ribs like armor. “We’ll talk then.”
He seems to think there will be a “later.” That whatever is happening to me isn’t permanent. That’s nice. I let his confidence seep into me, ebbing away the panic my weak body is trying to muster.
Then I feel him stiffen. A voice I don’t recognize echoes through the alley. “Don’t fucking move.”
I turn my head. The world in front of me swirls like watercolors before crystallizing into shape. When it does, I frown.
A man in black. A mask pulled over his face. Standing behind Ivan. With a gun to his head.
That’s not so nice.
There isn’t time to think or plan. Without hesitating, I stumble out of Ivan’s embrace. “D-don’t. Don’t shoot. Don’t—Please don’t hurt him.”
Ivan is glaring at me. Rage is rippling off of him like living shadows, crowning him in darkness. It’s probably whatever I’ve been drugged with, but I feel the darkness reaching towards me like vines, trying to pull me closer.
“Cora,” Ivan growls in warning.
The man readjusts his weapon. “Shut up. Both of you.”
But I can’t stay quiet. Not when the truth has been laid so bare before me.
I know, in this moment, that I’d rather die than see something bad happen to Ivan. I’d rather hand myself over than let him get hurt.
This might all be a game for him. But I’m not playing. Not anymore.
“Please.” I look past Ivan to the man behind him. To the gun pressed to his head. “Please don’t hurt him.”
The man tilts his head to the side. I can’t see his mouth, but I can sense a smile in his dark eyes. Then he turns the gun on me.
The world explodes. Sound and movement and color. I see the flash of the shot. Then something hits me. Someone, rather.
Ivan throws himself into me and shoves me out of the way. A feat that doesn’t take much effort considering my legs are little more than poorly stacked building blocks.
I collapse into the side of the building, the wind whooshing out of me.
I need to get up. I need to fight. I need to help Ivan.
The thoughts are wisps of smoke. I reach for them, but they dissolve in front of me.
I can’t get up. I can’t fight. I can’t help Ivan. I can barely even keep my eyes open.
Between long blinks, I see him struggling with the shooter. They’re fighting and grunting. I can’t tell who is winning or what is going to happen. But as I slip into inevitable sleep, one thought rises to the surface of my muddled mind.
I trust him.