Page 5 of The FBI Agents Who Stole Me

His chest heaves in shallow, irregular jerks beneath the ruined shirt. When he coughs, dark blood bubbles over his lower lip and slides down his chin in a thick trail. The wet, gurgling sound of it makes my jaw clench.

“Can you hear me? Are you able to tell me what happened?”

I work quickly to determine the major points of trauma. The abdominal wound is bleeding the fastest. I rip through his tattered clothing, and he jolts. Burns stripe his abdomen and chest, some blistered, some blackened at the edges. His body looks like someone held a blowtorch on him.

“What the fuck happened to you?” I mutter.

I tear open a sterile dressing and press it against the deepest wound.

“This is going to hurt,” I warn him, applying pressure.

If I can slow the bleeding long enough for paramedics to get here, he might survive transport. With the rate of blood loss, he has little time before he bleeds out.

He screams, and I wince as the animalistic sound rips through the apartment.

Bare feet slap against the floor behind me. Ettie appears at the edge of the living room, walking through shadows in the darkened room.

“Julian.” Her voice is thin and breathless. “What are you doing?”

She stands behind me with a silver gun in one hand and a silk robe knotted loosely around her body. I force my eyes off her heaving chest. Now is not the time even if she’s got a hot-as-fuck set of tits.

“I found him by the door. He must have stumbled in looking for help. Call an ambulance, Ettie. He needs help.”

The man’s gaze lands on Ettie, and panic contorts what is left of his face. He tries to drag himself backward, smearing blood beneath him. The coppery stench thickens in the room.

“Easy,” I say, pressing firmer against the wound. “She won’t hurt you. Breathe through the pain. It’s bad, but help is coming.”

“Fuck you,” he spits.

Blood sprays with the words, warm flecks landing on my gloves and the knee of my sweatpants. He chokes on a wet cough that rattles deep in his chest.

“He’s delirious.” I glance up without stopping the pressure. “Ettie, my cell is on the counter in the kitchen. I’ll need to pack this properly so he can be transferred.”

Blood seeps into the gauze. Even with the added pressure, it’s dark and relentless. It looks like he had a chunk of his stomach sliced out.

The front door clicks with the lock now in place. Ettie stands in front of it, and I glance at her. Is she crying?

“Babydoll, I understand this is frightening, but he still has a chance. The hospital isn’t far.”

My fingers are all but holding him together.

The man goes limp beneath my hands again, his breathing a shallow, gurgling rasp.

“Julian, let me handle this.” Her voice is edged. “This isn’t what you think.”

She hasn’t lowered her gun. Shiny eyes stay fixed on the man as she shifts her weight on bare feet.

“Julian, back up. Please,” she whispers. The plea cuts straight through me, raw and desperate in a way that makes my stomach clench.

“What’s going on?” I demand, still working even as dread coils tighter in my chest. “If I don’t get him to the hospital, he’s going to die right here on your floor.”

“He deserves worse.” Her gun shakes once, then she tightens her grip until her knuckles are bleach white. “Let him die, Julian. Stop trying to save him.”

I stare up at the love of my life. The robe slips open slightly at her collarbone, revealing the smooth curve of skin I know by heart, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Tears cut shiny paths down her cheeks, and her eyes hold a darkness I’ve never seen before.

“Ettie, tell me what is going on.” My hands press harder into the wound. “I cannot stand here and let a man die. You know that.”

The man lurches suddenly. One bloody hand swings toward my face in a weak, desperate arc.