My knees shake—my entire body shakes—but I stay upright, turning to look down at the place where I was just lying.
There’s so much fucking blood. It’s spread over the ground like some kind of macabre painting, dark red and shiny. I can see the spot where my body fell, where the blood couldn’t pool as deeply.
But I don’t see Marcus.
A thick red smear leads away from the bloody patch of ground, and my gaze follows it, tracing its path as it disappears around the corner of a building.
Oh, fuck.
Did he crawl away?
I want to run, to race around the corner of the building, but all I can manage is a slow, uneven shuffle. I catch the side of the large warehouse with my hand, steadying myself as I round the corner.
The trail of blood continues for several yards, growing a little more faint as it goes. Then it disappears.
“Marcus!”
My yell nearly splits my head open, but I don’t care. I don’t care that I’m not sure what time it is, that the game might not be over yet, that Dominic could still be out there, hunting us. I don’t care that I’m so lightheaded I feel dizzy, or that my legs feel like they might give out at any moment.
All I care about is finding Marcus.
Fixing him.
Helping him.
He got shot three times; I’m sure of it. I felt the impact of every single one, and I felt his blood, warm and wet on my back. Some of the blood pooling on the ground behind me might be Carson’s, but a lot of it is Marcus’s.
And if he’s lost that much blood…
Goddammit. Where the fuck is he?
Worry chews at my stomach like a dog with a bone as I stagger past the place where the trail of blood dies out. I reach another wide cement pathway between buildings and look left and right. But there’s nothing.
No sign of Marcus. No sign of anyone.
My heart lurches in my chest. Using the wall for support, I turn around and retrace my steps, heading back to the place where Carson’s body lies. My footsteps grow a little smoother, my muscles gaining strength as adrenaline overrides all the other signals flowing through my body.
When I round the corner and take in the scene before me, the gruesomeness of it hits me all over again. My entire body rebels at the sight and smell of the blood, but I force myself to walk over to Carson and kneel beside him.
He’s been shot in the head.
I missed the bullet wound at first because it’s just behind his temple, hidden in his hair. But I can see it now, the dark round hole where the bullet entered. He probably died instantly.
Did Marcus shoot him? How? When? And where the fuck did he go after he did it?
My fingers tremble as I extend a hand toward the corpse in front of me.
I fucking hated Carson Purcell. He abducted me and tried to use me as bait to lure out three men I care about, to use me like a pawn in this dangerous game. I’m not all that sorry he’s gone, but right now, I wish I could bring him back to life for just a minute so he could tell me what happened.
What happened between the moment when blackness overtook me and now?
I hit my head when I went down. I remember the sharp pain in my temple, the impact of my skull smacking against the ground. The spot where it hit still hurts like a son of a bitch, pounding out a heavy rhythm like it’s got its own heartbeat.
But I can’t remember any of the shit that happened after we fell. Not even vague flashes.
I brush my fingertips over Carson’s face, cringing at the unnaturally lax feel of his skin. He’s cool to the touch, which makes me think he must’ve been shot a while ago. More than an hour maybe? Fuck, I don’t know. I’m not a forensics expert.
Pulling my hand away, I dig into my back pocket for my phone. It’s streaked with blood, and I grimace as I press a button on the side to illuminate the screen.
Eleven thirty-three.
The game ends in thirty minutes. It’s not over yet.
A fresh wave of fear surges through me, and I stumble to my feet again. If the game isn’t done, that means Marcus is still vulnerable. If he’s out there somewhere, hurt and bleeding, he’ll be an easy target for Dominic or any one of the other players to take down.
And what about Theo and Ryland? Where are they? Are they alive?
I have Theo’s number in my phone. He gave it to me the night he drove me home from Marcus’s house. With my stomach twisting itself into knots, I pull up his contact, but my thumb hovers over the screen.
Should I call him? What if he and Ryland are hiding out somewhere, and the noise of his phone draws attention to them? Even if he’s got it on silent, the vibration could be enough to put a spotlight on him.
Should I text? Is that better?
Before my throbbing brain has time to sort through the random panicked thoughts flitting through my head, a voice calls out from behind me.
“Ayla!”
My heart jumps in my chest, crashing against my ribs as I shove the phone back in my pocket and whirl around. The move is too fast, my muscles too uncoordinated, and I almost just keep twirling like a ballerina doing a pirouette. But then my gaze locks on the face of the man who called my name, and for the first time since I woke up, everything seems to settle around me.
The world stops spinning as I stare into a pair of blue-green eyes.
Theo.
Ryland is behind him, and the two of them break into a run as soon as our eyes meet, sprinting toward me as I stagger toward them.
Theo’s body hits mine so hard it makes stars
