Oracle: A Paranormal Women's Fiction Series (A Diana Hawthorne Supernatural Mystery Book 1), Carissa Andrews [read my book .txt] 📗

it, I step out in front of Blake just as the bullet leaves Lester’s gun. With my arms splayed wide, I jump in the way, putting my body between Blake and the bullet.

The impact as it rips through my torso is enough to slow my momentum and force me backward instead of continuing on my sideways trajectory. My body slams against Blake, but his strong arms encircle me as we drop.

Blake’s bullet flies wildly off course, thanks to my fall, and it lodges itself in the rocky cavern wall.

Instead of Blake’s shirt stained crimson, it’s my own. As I hit the ground, my hands instantly fly to my wound, trying to keep the blood inside my body as pain sears through me. Blake’s nostrils flare wide and his lips press into a thin line. He doesn’t say a word. Instead, he lays me down gently and returns his focus to Lester.

His mind is a whirling cyclone of fury, worry, and what if’s—but he also knows he can’t dwell there. Not yet.

Standing up, he picks up his fallen weapon, then clutches the gun tightly in his hands.

I grope at the place where the metal invaded my body, mesmerized by the way the dark liquid is warm as it rushes through my fingers, just below my rib cage. The bullet is still lodged somewhere inside, and I can feel the entire trajectory it took as it ripped apart my insides.

Dizziness takes hold of my consciousness, yet I still catch the split-second surprise in Lester’s eyes as they then slide into a satisfied glint when he realizes his bullet still hit a mark.

He feels this worked out more in his favor anyway because it will make Blake weak—fearful. Or perhaps, sadness and devastation will make him easier to overcome.

Another shot fires and this time, Lester’s gun drops from his left hand as the bullet strikes the place just under his left collar bone. Blake steps forward, hovering just over Lester’s body—his mind is consumed with thoughts of rage and revenge.

His lips are pressed into a thin line and his nostrils flare as he begins to squeeze the trigger again—this time, to end it.

I’m flooded with the vision of things going sideways—of us being detained and big problems arising because this is an Interpol agent, not just some random kidnapping mastermind.

“Blake—don’t do it. I know you want to, but please, we need him alive,” I sputter, blood leaking from my mouth. Shaking, I wipe it away and the deep crimson smears across the dirty flesh on the back of my hand.

Blake turns his head to look at me, pain and despair clinging to his unguarded eyes.

Lester tries to scramble backward as he clutches his shoulder, his eyes trained on Blake. Without a word, Blake returns his gaze to Lester and lowers his gun. Then, without another moment’s hesitation, he shoots Lester through the fleshy part of his right thigh.

The man screams, clutching the new wound with already bloody fingers.

Behind me, the girls squeal, but I feel one small hand suddenly rest on my shoulder.

“Does it hurt?” Kaylee asks, her dark hand contrasting against my shirt’s light-colored fabric.

“A helluva lot,” I say, trying to force a grin.

Before I realize it, Blake is at my side.

“How bad is it Diana?” he asks, kneeling down.

“She’s lost a lot of blood,” Kaylee whispers.

I glance down at the ground beneath me…and she's right. The puddle is growing fast.

Flipping open his phone, Blake dials someone on his keypad.

“Please, we need some help. A civilian—she's been shot and I have the culprit in custody. Interpol should be nearby. Can you get a fix on my coordinates?” he says, not even trying to hide the panic fraying at the edges of his voice. “We need a medic immediately.”

Voices the size of ants chatter in his ear, but I have no idea what they're saying. I concentrate, instead, on the place where his hand gently rests on my arm. It's warm and pulses against my skin like a metronome.

My eyelids are heavy, and it's a struggle to keep them open. Commotion beyond my periphery tries to stir me from the black abyss encircling me, but I can't find the will to focus on it.

If I just close my eyes, maybe I can…

Darkness beckons me and instead of lingering here, I slip into its comforting embrace.

“I think she might be coming around,” a voice says somewhere in the vicinity of my head.

Everything is so heavy. Like I fell asleep when I shouldn’t have—or I used my gifts and pushed them too far again.

My eyes pop open and I bolt upright. Pain shoots through my abdomen and I clutch at it, trying to claw the pain out.

“That sonofabitch shot me—” I say, more to myself than anyone who might be nearby.

I grip at my torso, my fingers searching for the point of entry. Instead, I find a new shirt has been put on and my wound has already begun its accelerated healing process. The gaping hole is now much smaller, thanks in part to the new set of stitches.

“Lay back down for chrissakes,” Blake says, his hands suddenly on my shoulders and easing me backward.

As my back touches the bedsheets, I cock an eyebrow and try not to snicker to myself. It would take a helluva lot more than a bullet to keep me down.

A rush of emotions suddenly wells up, kicking me right in the gut as I stare into the wells of his dark, concerned eyes. I fight off the tears as they brim to the surface, making my eyes sting and my stomach clench.

He’s alive—I’m alive.

Blake takes a seat beside me, scooting his chair in closer so he can take my right hand. His thumb caresses the back of my hand, comforting me in more ways than I can even express.

“She sure is a fighter,” a nurse says to my left, her face buried in my medical chart.

Without a word, he nods. Instead, his eyebrows crumple inward, then flick