Page 69 of Forged By Shadows
We remain rooted to the spot. Doors are opened and rooms are searched in turn, each one loudly deemed ‘clear’ before moving onto the next. The room adjacent to this one is opened. We’re next. There’s no use trying to cover our movements now as we dart for the window. We’re several feet from the ground but the fall doesn’t concern me. The door flying open does.
“Stop!” a voice yells. Huxley slams his palm against the small of my back, shoving me onto the window ledge with his body weight. Bullets fly into the wall beside us. The pounding of boots echo with the hammering of my heart. I’m straddling the frame, half inside and half out when the warmth at my back disappears.
“Go!” Huxley shouts, throwing himself into the assailant running towards us. He knocks the man off kilter, giving him an opening to swing a fist into his masked face. Again and again, he manages to rain punches down on the man’s head and body. A slither of hope flares to life, even if Huxley’s face has taken on a terrifying edge. The harsh lines I usually marvel at are contorted by rage, his arm bulged with violence instead of vanity. Tears fill my eyes and I scream for him to come with me, stretching my hand out with strained fingers. We have our opening, now we have to take it. I climb over the windowsill; thankful I chose to wear sweatpants today and brace myself for the fall.
“Huxley, please!” I shout over my shoulder. Nodding, he readies himself to run as I drop myself over the edge and onto the hard ground. My ankles are unable to support the landing so I fall, rolling through the shrubs, thorns catching my hair, face and arms. Huxley’s blond hair appears over the edge of the window before he’s dragged backwards. Hearing grunts and shouts from above, I have to withdraw my instinct to cry out. He’s fighting for me, giving myself away wouldn’t help either of us.
I’ll get help. I will help. Rolling onto my hands and knees, I crawl through the greenery towards the front of the manor. My phone is clunking against my thigh in my pocket, I can capture some footage until Huxley joins me. Anything concrete to find out what is happening to us. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do.
Heading in the direction of the windows surrounding the front lobby, a gunshot pierces the air and I freeze. My mind stutters to a standstill, the sound ringing on repeat through my ears. It’s as if it’s happening again and again, although I only flinched once. When it clears, I peer back up to the open window. The struggling has stopped, and the air has gone deathly quiet, the world also holding its breath.
The wail of several police sirens cuts through me. They’re here, but they’re taking too long. I wait longer, willing Huxley’s face to appear and to let me know he’s okay. But it doesn’t. Instead, the rush of boots race out of the rear doors, the distant crunch of gravel fading away. They’re escaping and I’m doing nothing to stop it. Somewhere, a tiny voice in my mind forces me to scramble from the bush and run down the driveaway.
“That way!” I scream. “They’re escaping out the back!” A black and white striped car skids to a halt in front of me, police appearing in all directions. Hands grab for me, words I can’t hear sounding around the roar of blood in my ears. I’m placed into the back seat of a police car, the door slamming me inside. Officers in front of the car and multiple more police vehicles all rush towards the house, guns at the ready and the reality of what has happened hits me like a freight train.
Huxley didn’t appear. He would have followed me. Nothing would have held him back. Hiding my face in my hands, I cry so loudly my body shakes with each sob. Huxley came for me, saved me. I need him to be okay. I pray the gunshot I heard is either embedded in the burglar or the wall. If anything happens to him, I can’t…I won’t…there won’t be any coming back from this. I’ve split my heart and given out pieces so freely. I know better, but I did it anyway, and now I need to suffer when they do. I need to die when they do. The door to my left opening makes me flinch, but the sight of Wyatt sliding in is what really shocks me.
“Come here,” he says, his voice so soft that my tears double. Holding his arms out, I hesitate briefly wondering if this is a trap but fall into his body anyway. It’s the hauntedness of his green eyes, the scruff of his dark hair, the defeat in his posture. It can be a trap, I don’t care anymore.
Relaxing back against the leather seat, Wyatt strokes my hair as I cry into his chest. I clutch his t-shirt in my fist, using his deeply intense cologne to soothe me. To ground me. Another siren sounds and I glance up to see an ambulance passing, pulling right up to the front door. Not even Wyatt can hold me back now. Bursting out of the seat, I run to join the group of officers hovering around on the graveled driveaway.
“Holy fuck,” Axel runs out of the house and lifts me into his arms. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.” Over his shoulder, I see Garrett walk out, his usual cheekiness a distant memory by the taut expression on his face. He doesn’t meet my eye, passing by and joining Wyatt on the edge of the display. Placing me down, I keep my arms wrapped tightly around his middle as Axel pulls me out of the way. A stretcher is rushed out of the house, Huxley’s blond hair hanging over the edge. Dax is walking by his side, holding Huxley’s hand tightly with his white t-shirt covered in blood. No.
“Huxley!” I cry out, trying to run forward but Axel keeps me held tightly under his arm. I see the cage he was creating now, pre-empting this. I struggle and fight, needing to see. Huxley’s eyes are closed, his mouth slightly parted and his skin an ashy shade of white. The sheet is tightly bound to his body by two orange straps, failing to stop the blood leaking through the gauze stuffed into his wound. Two paramedics lift the stretcher into the ambulance, as an EMT and Dax jump in the back. The other slams the back doors closed and jogs around to the driver’s seat, turning the sirens on as he speeds out of the driveaway.
“Let me go, Axel! Get off me,” I beg and scream but his grip is unyielding. “This is all my fault. You’d all have been better off never coming here.” Hands grip my cheeks, forcing me to stop writhing and face the emerald eyes staring at me.
“If we weren’t here, that would have been you,” Wyatt saves sternly. “We have to remain calm until we know the facts.” I mimic his nodding, copying his deep breaths. He is the voice of reason here and now, his lack of open emotion finally serving a purpose. “We’ll take the Bentley and meet them at the hospital. He’s going to be okay.”
“I’m afraid we’re going to need to take some statements,” an officer interjects, a notepad open in his hand. Wyatt’s scowl is venomous as he releases me and spins on his heel.
“Then you can take them from the hospital,” he growls with authority. My bottom lip quivers as Wyatt jogs around to fetch the car and the officer backs away, leaving us to our own thoughts. Noticing Garrett’s distant stare, I reach out to grip his hand and tug him towards us. Slipping his hands into my hair, Garrett holds me into his chest while Axel’s arms wind around my waist from behind. Garrett places his head onto Axel’s shoulder above me, trapping me. We sigh collectively.
“He’s going to be okay,” Axel rubs his hands over my waist.
“He better be,” I whimper, pressing further into their warmth. Garrett grunts overhead, his tone low and barely recognizable.
“Oh, he will be, Peach. Because if Hux even thinks of dying on us, I’ll fucking kill him myself.”
Chapter Forty Seven
The next few days pass in a blur. Huxley’s surgery took an agonizing amount of time, but went well. The bullet entered beneath his collar bone, missing the subclavian artery. It’s a miracle his joint damage wasn’t severe and his recovery should be smooth - if he abides by the surgeon’s instructions.
As it is, Avery is tucked into his side, propped up in the hospital bed and turning the newspaper pages for him. Both she and Wyatt recently came back from being shouted at down the phone. In Avery’s case, it was her lack of updating Meg which she caught shit for. Wyatt got an ear-full from Nixon.
“The police want to take another statement from you,” Dax enters the room, six coffees mounted in a cardboard holder. His gaze seeks out Avery, and she groans.
“I’ve already told them everything.” She sinks further into the baggy hoodie she’s wearing - I think it’s Garrett’s. It’s true, we’ve all heard her statement twice before and there’s nothing left to say. The phone call Avery made from her closet to nine-one-one was actually intercepted, and it’s possible she was speaking to an accomplice of the intruders. Luckily, a jogger passing by the manor heard the gunfire and called the real authorities.
As it stands, that voice on the end of the phone is the only tangible lead the cops have. Huxley’s guards were drugged, the surveillance was wiped from an unknown source. This knowledge is the first time we’ve realized we’re not dealing with some simple fan or harmless stalker. This is the big leagues, and we’re all but small fish in their pond.
The groaning continues as Dax aids Avery in standing from the bed, puts a coffee in her hands and guides her towards the door. It’s better to let the police ask their questions and leave, even if they don’t give any advice for what we’re supposed to do now. As Dax closes the door, I can see his expression means business.
“Any ideas?” he asks. We all know what he means. We’ve been passing hallway whispers, scrambling for ways to keep Avery safe. It’s clear, to whoever is watching her, the very problem is us. But leaving her alone isn’t an option. The attack on the manor was just the beginning. Those men were looking for her. They had instructions to take her.
“Aside from locking her in a basement?” Garrett pitches in from his chair in the corner. Dax remains standing by Hux’s bed, the pair of them hitting Garrett with a death glare. “What?! I’ll be down there too, caring for her most basic needs, and you guys can deliver us the finest food money can buy. Add in a few chains and whips - sounds like heaven to me.” Wyatt hasn’t stopped pacing for days, whereas I hover on the edge of a counter, my arms folded.
“This isn’t a fucking joke, Garrett,” I seethe. His brows hit his hairline but he doesn’t say anything further.
