YOU WERE SHOT!

YOU WERE SHOT!

Layla

I didn't waste any time as soon as we reached the mansion. The car wasn't even fully stopped when I pulled the door open and leaped out. My heels cracked in anger on the marble as I ascended the big stairs, my heart pounding. I didn't know—and I didn't care—if Marcelo was following me. I didn't care if the whole building burned down behind me. I just wanted Gran-Gran. I wanted to be in her arms, to smell the sweet scent of lavender on her blouse and cry like a little girl one more time.

I shouldn't have run away.

I shouldn't have left without telling her.

I shouldn't have assumed that maybe, just maybe, I could finally breathe in this world.

"Ughhhhh!" I screamed, fingers ripping through my hair. The anger, shame, horror—it all boiled over.

Behind me, I heard his footsteps. Calm. Steady. Confident, as always.

And mine quickened.

I did not want to look at him. I did not want to listen to his excuses, or his explanations, or his charming damn voice. Everything around me smelled of gunpowder. Like fire and smoke and violence.

What world had I tumbled into?

Would there be escape?

"Being upset wouldn't replace the thank you," he said to me, casual, as if the world wasn't spinning off its axis.

I stopped.

Dead in my tracks.

And I turned.

Furiously.

Like lightning.

"Thank you?" I echoed, my voice rising with each syllable, fury bubbling like a volcano inside me. "You want me to thank you?"

My hands shook. My heart raced.

"I was safe. I was okay. I was in a mansion with my sister that I just met a few months ago and you came barging in with gunshots and everything, shooting everything in sight probably because—I don't know—because I didn't even get a chance to see anything because you kidnapped me!"

He just stood there. Silent. Eyes unreadable.

"You dragged me to a ball where I was almost kidnapped and then almost killed!" I shouted, breathless. "And you want me to thank you? Thank you? For what? For drawing me deeper into your world of secrets and blood and power struggles I don't even begin to understand?"

The silence sizzled between us.

And then he said it. Quietly. Unwaveringly. Like steel.

"I kept you safe."

I laughed, bitter.

"You have no idea what those moron goons had planned," he went on, his voice gaining edge. "You have no idea what you are in all of this. What your name means. Who you are. You think they wanted to dance with you, Layla? They were going to grab you. Do stupid things to you. Probably kill you before you even had a chance to scream."

His fists were at his sides.

"But I kidnapped you," he said. "Not the best way to do it, no. But I don't really know any better. I saved you. So you at least owe me a fuc—"

He paused. Mid-word.

His voice shut off.

His hand went slowly, very slowly, to his chest.

He lurched forward.

"Marcelo?" I breathed.

We were inside now. I had not realized we had walked through the hallway and into the foyer. The huge chandelier above us cast gold light to dance on the marble floors. The silence was oppressive.

He collapsed into one of the velvet chairs at the staircase.

I rushed to him, anger forgotten, fear tearing its way up like bile.

He pulled his hand away from his chest.

And there it was.

Blood.

Thick. Dark red. Flowing.

So much blood.

My eyes went wide.

"Oh my God."

He gritted his teeth. "Guess. guess one of them got me."

"Oh my God, you were shot," I whispered, trembling.

My knees buckled and I fell to the ground beside him.

"Oh my God, you were shot."

I shouted again, but he didn't react.
Blood. There was so much of it. My hands trembled as I struggled to understand what was happening. This wasn't a prank. This wasn't some stunt to make me feel guilty or get me to sympathize. Marcelo—Silvio—whatever his real name was—was bleeding out.

Panic climbed the back of my throat. My heart was a tornado. I sprinted to the nearest shelf, drawer, anything, everything, hoping to find a first-aid kit or a towel, or something. Anything.

Why was the mansion so quiet?

Why was nobody there?

"Help!" I screamed, voice shattering as I dashed from room to room. "Help! Is anybody here? Please!"

No answer.

I ran back to him. He hadn't moved, apart from his hand now grasping more firmly over the wound, the dark red trickling through his fingers like spilled wine.

I dropped to my knees. "Why is nobody here? Where is everybody?!"

He winced and shook his head weakly, his face still managing to be smug even in pain. "Calling for assistance would not help," he croaked. "I swapped with everyone for the night."

"What?" My voice cracked, rising. "Are you insane?! Are you actually insane?"

He winced as he tried to sit up straighter, grinding his jaw against a groan of pain. "Likely."

"You're—oh my God—" I turned again, looking for something. My dress made a rustling sound with the movement, and then I looked down at it.

It was designer. Something I am sure cost more than my entire closet combined.

But right then? Who the hell cared?

I stepped on the hem and pulled as hard as I could. The material tore with a good ripping sound, tore apart by the seams. I balled up the material in my fists and pressed hard into the spurting wound in his side.

"This was expensive, if you want to know," he growled through gritted teeth.

Despite himself, he grinned crookedly, blood-drained. "Trying to save me… and still keep mouth on you."

"Don't flatter yourself."

I pushed harder against his side. He cursed, then groaned.

"Fuck—Layla—shit."

"Stay there!" I yelled. "Don't move. Just—God, I don't know what to do! Tell me what to do?! Can you tell me what to do?!"

He inhaled through his nose. "Alright. Downstairs. Go to the cellar. There's a doctor there…"

"What?" I blinked. "You have a doctor. in your cellar?"

He smiled painfully, then clenched his teeth. "I'm kidding. That was a joke.".

"Kidding me now?"
"I am," he growled, and laughed once more, hard and tormented. "But only about getting shot."

I snorted, still shaking, the heat of his blood soaking into the palms of my hands. "That's it. I'm calling 911."

His hand shot up and closed around my wrist—not tight, but hard. "Do I look like a good guy to get in with the government machine?"

I glared at him. The splatters of blood on his shirt. The smugness in his voice. The half-smile still creasing the corner of his mouth, even as he bled.

"No," I conceded. "You are an idiot with a death wish."

He waved me closer. "Then stay. Just… come near."

I hunched over reluctantly. I was still pressing the makeshift cloth against his wound, trying to control the bleeding. My own breathing was a harsh parody. I could barely think for the pounding in my head.

And then it occurred.

His hand fell into my hair.

I didn't see it coming. Not even a little bit. But his fingers intertwined deep, and he pulled slowly, slowly, in a manner that had my whole body stiffen in place.

"Marcello—"

And then his mouth was on mine.

It wasn’t harsh or demanding like I expected. It was… soft. Consuming. Beautiful in a way I didn’t think he was capable of. The world stopped spinning. The blood, the panic, the mansion, the gunshots, everything—it melted into nothing.

I should’ve pulled away.

I didn’t.

His lips parted mine with a gentleness that wounded my heart. My eyes closed involuntarily. My fingers went limp against the bloody cloth, sinking in the taste of his mouth molding to mine as if he already knew what I tasted, as if he'd waited his entire life.

His kiss deepened, one hand in my hair, the other now over my hand where I held his wound. The warmth of his touch, even in suffering, was enough to let something wild out in me.

I melted.

God help me, I melted into him as if I was supposed to be where I was.

But then I recalled.

I snapped out of it, wide eyes, ragged breathing as I looked at him. His lips still slightly open, eyes dark with the familiar unreadable glint. That half-smile, that marvelous telltale Marcelo half-smile, creeping onto his face again.

"You're. impossible," I breathed.

"Still bleeding, if you notice," he rasped.

I should have left. Should have told him to choke on his ego. But something tugged at my core. Something hot. Wild.

Unstoppable.

I didn't know
what got into me.

I didn't know what got into my body.

But I leaned in again, lips crashing into his with a ferocity that took us both by surprise.

And this time, I kissed him like I wanted to.