Page 70 of Born Wicked

But my world feels like it drops out from beneath me when my eyes slide over.

There’s a wooden stake sticking out of Roman’s back.

Roman yanks backward, freeing the man’s heart of its cage.

A curse is muttered as the man slumps back against the wall. He pitches sideways and hits the concrete hard as his body begins to gray.

“Roman,” I mutter as I dart to his side, panic and terror clambering up my spine. He stumbles, and I catch him before he hits the ground. “Roman, no. Damnit.”

“It didn’t…” he gasps, his words sounding wet.

But I know what he was going to say because my medical training finally kicks in.

That stake is buried into the right side of his back. It’s definitely punctured his lung, but not his heart.

It’s my turn to curse. “This is going to hurt.”

He makes a wet gasping sound, his eyes rolling into the back of his head for a second, but he nods.

My fingers wrap around the stake. Adrenaline burns through my veins, my emotions are completely strung out. I feel like I’m going to throw up.

But I command my hand to be steady. And then I pull.

A roar reverberates off the buildings that surround us, and I know we need to get the hell out of here or prying eyes are going to appear any second.

I rip a strip of fabric from the bottom of my skirt and wad it up, pressing it into the wound.

“We need to move,” I say, looking around in each direction. “And we can’t leave him there like that.”

Roman is breathing hard, harsh huffs from his nostrils. With a pained groan, I help him to his feet, pressing the cloth into his wound. I haven’t even looked at how bad his face is yet.

“The alleyway,” I say, nodding my chin to the closest one. I cling to Roman, keeping him upright, and we dart into the dark. “Lean back against this,” I instruct, leaning him back against a wall, pinning the cloth with his own bodyweight.

There’s the distant sound of sirens, and I know we’ve got a minute or less before this place will be flooded with the police.

My heels click against the concrete as I dart back onto the sidewalk. I grab the man’s heart, and I handle blood and guts all the time, but even I fight the urge to barf, and toss it into the bushes. Next, I hook my hands under his arms and drag him back into the alleyway.

“Dumpster?” I ask, looking at our options.

“It’s our best bet for now,” Roman confirms with a nod.

I drop the body next to the massive blue metal box. I flip back the lid. Perfect. It’s nearly full. Not so perfect, I have to jump inside to clear some room to get him beneath the top layers.

This should be impossible. The man has to outweigh me by a hundred pounds, no question about it. There’s no way I should be able to lift him as high as my head and dump him in. Yet, it’s done and taken care of in less than twenty seconds, and it’s not even that hard.

“Come on,” I say as I flip the lid closed again. “We need to leave.”

I wrap an arm around Roman’s waist, him hooking one arm over my shoulders. I try to keep the cloth pressed into his back, but even as we step out on the opposite side of the alleyway, I can tell the wound is already healing. His breathing doesn’t sound near as wet.

I look up and down the street. We’re not anywhere near a home base. The church is twelve blocks from here, my apartment is seven, the club is five, and the hospital is eight.

But we have to go somewhere, so I set off to the left. It’s quiet out. It’s ten o’clock at night in January. It’s been dark for hours. So, I feel confident enough that we’ll be left alone when I aim us into the courtyard for a coffee house. It’s tucked back, and there are bushes giving us privacy from the sidewalk.

I aim Roman for the long communal table in the center. With a groan, he sits on it, his face a wince.

“Does it feel like it’s still bleeding?” I ask.

“I don’t think so,” he answers, and without consulting my medical advice, he rips his suit jacket and button up shirt off with one harsh yank.