Page 68 of Hunt You Down

I was rendered speechless. Dylan was so impressed that I thought his face would explode, and André acted as if it were the simplest decision he’d ever made. I struggled to wrap my head around it. He’d shot someone, just to help me?

“How long have you had a gun?” I asked, giving his hand the slightest squeeze with the tips of my fingers.

“Ever since I was big enough to hold one. I never told you what my dad did for a living?” I shook my head, and André’s lips twitched. “He’s a retired SWAT officer.”

I didn’t think Dylan could get any prouder. My free hand pinched my thigh beneath the scratchy hospital blanket. Yep, this was real.

André squeezed my hand a bit tighter. “You don’t have to worry about anything. I’ve never had to shoot it at someone before and after that, I don’t think I’ll even look at it again.” He shuddered.

“What’s happening to Regan?” I asked Dylan, still twisting the skin on my thigh.

The smile faded from my brother’s face. “He was treated for the gunshot wound on his leg—he’ll be fine, unfortunately. He’ll be charged with felony escape, kidnapping, varying degrees of assault, and possession of a deadly weapon on top of the other charges. He’s being held in the medical wing of the state prison and once he’s cleared, he’ll be extradited to Georgia.”

I appreciated that Dylan skipped over the “R” word. I attempted to take a deep breath. “I’ll have to be there too, won’t I?”

André gently hooked a finger under my chin, arresting my attention. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, baby. The only thing you have to do now is rest.”

“Kiss me?” I squeaked, surprising myself. I hadn’t even realized that was what I needed.

“Gladly.” André smiled and leaned over, tenderly pressing his lips against mine.

Dylan left the room, muttering about something he needed to take care of, and André and I were left alone. My boyfriend brushed my hair away from my face, soothing me to sleep.

Just before I drifted off, I tugged on André’s hand to get his attention. I was still very groggy and my words came out slurred, but I tried my best. “Did you close that deal?”

André gave me a sleepy smile, and this time, his eyes sparkled. “Yeah, baby. I closed the deal.”

I tried to smile. I’m fairly sure I did. I held on tight to his hand as morphine swept me into unconsciousness once more.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The next morning, I was given consent forms to sign—ones that released my medical records to the police. I didn’t hesitate until I got to the form that would allow them to process the rape kit. I knew what the results would be.

André’s reaction over learning about the sexual assault broke me. I didn’t want to put him through this. He didn’t deserve any of it. Hearing the stories about how happy and care-free he was before all this only made me feel worse. Rape, assault, battery, attempted murder, stalking… I was no stranger to any of those words. Over the course of six years, they’d become everyday conversation for me, but not for him. I could only imagine how upsetting it was. His stomach seemed to settle, but I didn’t miss him flinch as if he were being hit every time someone said the word.

“Sign it,” he said when he noticed my hesitation. “If it even has a chance of putting that bastard away until he rots… I know it won’t be me reliving it in court, and my opinion is just that, but that son of a bitch deserves everything he’s got coming to him. I think you should sign it.”

I thought I’d seen André angry before, but it was nothing like what I saw in his eyes then. The look sent a shiver down my spine. He almost seemed like a different person.

So I signed it, and handed everything over, knowing what was going to happen. My most personal information was going to be aired out for a dozen strangers, not to mention the press. Regan’s escape had been all over the place.

But I had other things to worry about. Simply pushing myself to the edge of the bed to stand up was enough pain to make me sick. I was supposed to have two physical therapists—one on each side of me—but André wasn’t having that. The therapist didn’t seem particularly thrilled, but she didn’t say a word.

Dylan came and went, along with Penn, Amanda, and Mitchell. André, however, never left my side. They all asked him if he wanted a break or to handle something at work, and he declined every time. He stuck by me every day as I learned to walk farther from the bed.

First, it was just from the bed to a wheelchair, then from the wheelchair to the recliner. Then it was learning to push the chair myself, and from there I could at least get myself to the bathroom, which meant the catheter could finally come out. André swore he wasn’t squeamish, but judging by the sickly color he turned after witnessing that procedure, I begged to differ.

It was only then that I let myself look in the mirror—and regretted it. I didn’t even recognize myself. My entire face was one big purple bruise, yellowing around the edges. My nose was still covered by a bandage. The plastic surgeon kept reassuring me that the swelling would go down, but that seemed less likely with each passing day.

I didn’t know how André could stand to look at me. I could barely stand to look at myself. My blue eyes were bottomless pits in the middle of all the black and purple. Crying didn’t help, because wiping the tears away was more painful than just muscling through.

It took ten days of physical therapy before I could shuffle down the hallway on a walker, and that zapped every ounce of energy I had. The staples came out, and the stitches followed. They’d reopened the healed scar on my stomach, but now I had a matching set: a nasty line that started behind my ear and danced down to my collarbone. The plastic surgeon had done what he could, but there was no guarantee that it would ever fade. I couldn’t avoid it when I looked in the mirror. It would be a constant reminder of what I’d gone through—of him.

After nearly a month in the hospital, I was finally considered well enough to go home. I’d been on IV antibiotics since my admission, and would be sent home with strong oral ones. They offered painkillers, but I turned them down, which meant the rest of the healing process would really suck.

I learned later that André filled the prescription secretly and after one particularly rough night, I thanked him for it.

I still had a special dressing on my neck. Even though I was more than capable of doing it myself—with the help of a mirror—André insisted on learning. I couldn’t help but laugh as he heaved through the instructions.