Page 50 of To Love a Beast

No, God. Please!

"Spartacus, stay."

Hopefully, two hundred pounds of canine weight would keep Batton pinned. Everett sprinted around the supine form of his enemy and dropped to his knees at Callista's side. Cupping her shoulder, he gently rolled her toward him.

Wide eyes met his, and her mouth opened as if she struggled to draw breath. "Gun," she rasped.

As her hips rotated toward him, he spotted the pistol and wrenched it from Batton's surprisingly lax grip. Everett twisted his torso and hurled the weapon away, the distant metallic clatter comforting as he turned back to Callista.

Cradling her in his arms, he pulled her to his chest and moved her away from Batton. "You're going to be all right, sweetheart." She had to be all right.

She leaned forward, a horrible wheezing sound rattling in her chest.

Had the bullet punctured her lung? He laid her on the ground a few feet from Batton and immediately searched for an entry wound, needing to staunch the blood. Red stained his hands as he searched the fabric of her dress for a hole. Worried his single eye was missing something, he tore the patch away from his weak eye, but still, he found nothing.

He pressed his hand against the bloodiest part of her dress, an apology on his lips, but she didn't flinch at his touch.

Where was the blasted wound?

Glancing over his shoulder to ensure Spartacus still had Batton under control, he spotted a small knife on the ground a couple feet away. He leaned over and stretched out his arm just far enough to grasp it. He'd cut her dress away. Find the wound and staunch the blood.

He reached for the fabric at her waist and fit the blade beneath a blood-stained pleat. Callista curled forward and touched his wrist. He stilled. Peered into her face.

"I have to find the wound."

She shook her head. "Not me," she said, her breathing beginning to ease. She pointed behind him. "Batton."

Not her? It took a moment for the truth to penetrate his panic. Slowly, he swiveled to face his foe and processed details he'd failed to note earlier. The large and still growing pool of blood by his left side. The bent arm that had been under Callista. The fingers near his waist. Fingers that would have pulled the trigger.

He shot himself?

Everett glanced back at Callista and found her beautiful brown eyes filling with tears as she stared at Batton. "I-I didn't mean to . . ."

Bending over her, he took Callista's face in his hands and turned her away from the gruesome sight. "You saved my life, Callista. Nothing that happened here is your fault. Batton pulled that trigger. Not you. Understand?" A tear fell but she gave a nod. "That's my girl."

He smiled and pressed a kiss to her forehead, treasuring the feel of her breath against his neck. She was alive!

Easing back, he sought her gaze. "I'll see to him. You stay here, all right?"

She wrapped her arms around her middle and nodded.

Not sure what he'd find, he kept the small knife in his hand and approached with caution.

"Spartacus. Down."

The Mastiff relinquished his perch and trotted to Everett's side. When Batton failed to spring to his feet, Everett patted the dog's head and gestured for him to go to Callista.

"Batton?" Everett stepped around the blood and drew alongside the man's shoulder. He crouched down.

Knife in his right hand, he gingerly placed his left on the man's chest. No movement. Batton's eyes stared at the sky unseeing. Everett bowed his head, his gaze traveling down to the wound in Batton's side. The bullet must have hit a major artery to bring about such a swift demise. Nothing could be done for him now.

Reaching up to the man's face, he closed his lids over his eyes. "May God have mercy on your soul." He murmured the standard prayer, surprised at how much he meant the words. As a redeemed beast in constant need of the Lord's mercy himself, Everett found he couldn't withhold it, even from his enemy.

Everett retrieved a blanket from the cabin and draped it over Batton's lifeless form then returned inside to wash his hands and face and find clean cloths so that Callista could do the same. He carried a chair out to her and arranged it facing away from Batton then tended the wound beneath her chin. It would leave a small scar, but thankfully not in a place where she'd be reminded of her trauma every time she looked in a mirror. Like he had been. Yet, even had Batton's knife marred her face, Everett doubted Callista would have hidden herself away as he had done. She had far too much zest for life to become a hermit. No doubt, she'd continue working at her father's side, serving the public, her smile as bright and friendly as ever. Only the hardest of hearts would fail to see the beauty of her spirit.

Perhaps it was time for him to leave his own self-imposed prison. To cease caring so much about what others thought of his face and help them see who he was as a man. A man who had put his beastly ways behind him after being tamed by love.

Callista hissed quietly as he made a final pass over her cut.