into his arms, twisting his body so his back is to the shooter, and begins to run.
Someone is shooting at us, at me. A-fucking-gain.
And this time, I’ve been shot.
Chapter 19
Tate hurries through the forest, his arms wrapped around my shaky body in an iron vise. He glances over his shoulder, curses, and then picks up speed, veering off the main trail and into a densely populated thicket of trees. Branches snag at my clothing and hair, and I whimper slightly as a particularly sharp one rubs against my wound.
“Fuck!” Despite running at full speed with me in his arms, my God of Deception hasn’t even broken a sweat. His eyes, however, are crazed as they flicker to the rapidly bleeding gunshot wound on my shoulder. “Why aren’t you healing, baby?”
“I don’t fucking know,” I manage to bite out through clenched teeth. In the Realm of the Gods, I would be healed by now, especially with the pain running rampant through my body. It’s understandable, in a demented sort of way, that pain amplifies my healing capabilities.
“It’s this fucking realm,” Tate seethes, obviously coming to the same conclusion as me. “You’re more human than goddess at the moment.”
“Great,” I drawl, twisting my face so I can inhale his pine scent.
We’re both silent as Tate continues to run through the woods, stopping periodically to glance over his shoulder at the eerily silent and still woods. There’s no one in sight, but I don’t allow myself to relax. Tension continues to thrum through me like a palpable entity that’s sitting on my shoulders. My heart ricochets in my ribcage as I listen for the assassin. Because I have no doubt that’s what he is—an assassin sent to kill me.
Honestly, he’s a pretty shitty one if he couldn’t hit one measly heart when I was unaware of his presence.
We must’ve been running for over an hour when we break through the forest, stopping in front of what appears to be a corrugated iron warehouse. Tate wastes no time racing forward and wrenching the metal door open. He doesn’t bother to look if there’s anyone inside, using his foot to kick the door shut behind us with an audible clank.
I stare around the derelict room, practically gagging over the noxious smell—stale piss, coppery blood, and something I would almost describe as shit. When Tate gently sets me on my own two feet, I accidentally step in a puddle, and I pray to whoever’s listening that it’s only water.
There are a few blankets and pillows pushed against the far wall, and I reckon that this warehouse has been used by numerous homeless men and women throughout the years. Fortunately, it appears to be deserted at the moment.
“Let me look, baby.” Tate’s voice is far gentler than I’ve ever heard it before, and his eyes are wide with panic and desperation as he slowly removes my jacket. He reaches into his back pocket and procures a knife, slicing easily through my shirt until I’m left in only my sports bra. Tenderly, he pushes down the sleeve until the wound is bared to his assessing eyes currently spewing vitriol. “Fuck!”
“Who the hell was that?” I demand, wincing as Tate touches at the tender flesh. Anger rampages through me. Some fucker shot at me. He could’ve hurt Tate! As soon as I find this son of a bitch, I’m going to hang him from the rafters, stick a knife in both of his wrists, and watch him bleed.
“Does it look like I know?” Some of Tate’s original ire returns as he shoots me an annoyed look. “I’m not some assassin expert.”
“But you are an assassin. And a cop. Maybe you know him,” I insist, followed immediately by, “Stop touching that, you shithead!”
“I need to get the bullet out, brat,” he grumbles. “And for the record, not all assassins hang out and go to the bar after work. Stop being stupid and hold still.”
“I’ll show you stupid—” I break off as pain once more unfurls across my shoulder, and I just barely hold in my gasp. The pain quickly transitions into something else, something almost pleasurable, and the embers of power in my stomach begin to flicker errantly. “Wait, Tate!”
“What now?” He grants me an irritated look, but even his annoyance does little to conceal the fear in his eyes. Tate is scared. For me. The delicate wings of dozens of butterflies begin to flutter in my chest.
“Press down,” I instruct, and when he simply raises an eyebrow, uncomprehending, I