✓ WICKED VOWS| JAKE (Book II )

49-Fragile Things In Hell

Jake's pov

She dies.

I die.

I didn't hesitate. The side door grated loudly against her bike as I swung the car far too close, my hand stretching out to grasp her arm, holding tight. "Ana, now!" I bellowed at her, my voice cutting through the cacophony—the urgency bleeding through, and something darker, more primal, one that I could not throttle down.

She had no option. Her eyes locked with mine for a second, and it was as though time had expanded, filling that moment with everything—the anger, the mistrust, the raw feeling—that had been brewing between us for what felt like eons. With one last look, she let go of the bike, her body sailing toward me as I let go of the wheel, my arms instinctively wrapping around her.

The second she hit me, it was like the world snapped back into cruel, sharp focus. My hands closed around her, yanking her inside the car with force both my fear of losing her and the immediate danger. Her body collided with mine—the impact jolting—and in that split second, I felt the searing pain of a bullet tearing through my arm.

A snarl of agony ripped from my throat—dark, burning pain radiating from the wound—but I didn't let go. I couldn't. The fury and desperate need stormed through my mind as the primal drive to protect her overrode every other consideration. That shot tearing into my flesh was nothing compared to the thought of losing her, of failing her in this moment.

I forced myself to steady the car, my blood-slicked fingers gripping the wheel as I pulled Ana close with the other. She was against my side, her body warmth a harsh contrast with the cool steel and the darkness that seemed to have claimed us both. Her heartbeat was fast and frantic against my chest, feeding the flames—a reminder of why I had to keep her safe, and protect her at all costs.

My arm ached, a pulsing, fiery reminder of how close we were to death, but it didn't matter. The fact of the matter was, she was here, in my arms, alive. The danger was far from over, with the dark desire to destroy all those who threatened us bubbling just beneath the surface. Still, protecting her, holding her close, seemed to be all that mattered as the world continued to shatter around us.

That bike skidded violently on the tarmac and went out of control, only to come to a deafening crash by a barrier. Now the black car was already on us, with Ana being in the car, everything had changed.

"Stay down!" was all I growled, my voice rough with the force of my emotions, but she just started searching the car for a gun, "Those assholes are getting on my nerves." She cursed as she pulled out a gun and started firing at the car. She was precise, and her face had no emotion or life, let alone dead eyes.

She had stopped struggling, but I could feel the rigidity of her body, the anger emanating from her in waves. She was far from going to forgive me, and that did not count at this moment. The important thing now was how to take us out of here alive.

I put my foot on the floor, and the car surged forward as I tried to get some distance between us and the black car. All the snipers I had called, by now, were in position, but I couldn't rely on them alone. That was a fight I had to finish on my own. When I swung the car to the right to dodge another round of bullets, I couldn't take my mind off the gun in Ana's hand, flawlessly drawn with an ease that told of experience, the black steel glinting ominously in the fading light. She recognized a SIG Sauer P320, one of those pistols I kept stashed in the car, just in case. Only I hadn't told her about the cache. My mind raced, trying to focus on the road.

How in hell did she know where I cached all of my guns?

The car had a small but deadly arsenal set inside it at all crucial points for situations like this one. Besides the SIG Sauer P320 that Ana somehow managed to dig up, there was a Glock 19 under the driver's seat, a Heckler & Koch USP Compact buried within the glove compartment, and a compact Remington 870 shotgun buried in a compartment behind the backseat. I had gone to great lengths to conceal these weapons, their locations known to no one—not even the closest members of my team. But Ana. she had found hers without a second's wavering as if she knew exactly where to look. Sh looked hot as fuck.

Even as it burrowed into my mind, the gunfire sounded in my head. Was she watching me more closely than I thought? Had she been studying me? Or was it something deeper, maybe in the way humans have some kind of instinctual knowledge of good and evil? I couldn't let that train of thought continue; the whole world was spiraling out of control.

That she knew about the weapons I'd stashed for emergencies was unnerving, raising questions that I had no luxury to answer just yet. While she gave a few more shots, cleaning up the men who had been going to get us, I could not dispel the growing sense of disquiet I felt.

She was more resourceful than I had given her credit for—deadlier, too. But the question that lingered, gnawing at the back of my mind, was: How much else did she know? And why hadn't she come to me first?

She wasn't fragile like a flower, she was fragile like a bomb.

Beside me, Ana was drawing sharp, controlled breaths, reminding me with every sharp intake noise of how close to the edge we were. Her body merged almost with the car seat as she shot back at her pursuers. I could see her eyes narrow in concentration, her finger pulling on the trigger with all the precision in the world.

"I need them fucking alive," she muttered, frustration coating her voice like poison. Still, it was too late—her shots met their targets as both men fell on the car, lifeless. It skidded behind our vehicle till it came to a deceleration, revealing the dark proof of her deadly skills.

She looked at me then, her eyes off the mess she'd created and down at my arm, where blood was seeping steadily through the fabric of my shirt. "When the hell did they shoot you?" Her voice was sharp, a mix of concern and exasperation.

"I don't have time for this now," I muttered, while still looking at the road and getting us the hell out of there. My arm hurt like hell, yet even that sort of hurt in a distant throb, an annoyance I could shove aside—that's what I kept repeating to myself anyway.

"You're bleeding, Jake. You need to wrap up that wound," she persisted, her tone no-nonsense, one that would permit no argument.

"The bullet just grazed the skin," I shot back, in a futile attempt at brushing her off. "It's nothing serious. It's not that bad." My hands were whitening at the knuckles as my grip on the wheel didn't ease while I drove the narrow streets.

However, before I could say more, I felt her fingers push into the wound, and a bolt of sharp pain surged through me, making me hiss unconsciously from the discomfort. "Your wince is telling me otherwise," she snapped, her voice tinted with that Italian flare that seemed to rise when she got angry or worried. "And it's your fucking right hand, stupid. You'll need it for surgeries."

She chastised me seriously, in the way a mother scolds a child going astray. Her tone did not permit me any argument. I could hear the worry in her voice, even if it was buried under a hundred layers of irritation.

"You need to see a doctor right now." She'd beaten me to the punch, had her phone out, and was dialing before the words had left my lips. Her fingers were quick with practiced ease. "Jude," came her short, firm voice. "Clean up the mess behind us, and prepare me a full history of these fuckers."

She hung up on Jude's response and immediately turned back to me. Her gaze was hard, but there was a glint of something else—something softer, more vulnerable—that she quickly cloaked behind a mask of indifference.

"Now, you need to get yourself cleaned up, tough man," she ordered, her tone brooking no argument. "Let me drive or drive back."

It was a concern, buried below the harshness of her words, but it stirred something in me, something dark and twisted that had nothing to do with the pain in my arm. Despite everything—despite the blood, the danger, the fact that we'd just killed two men together—there was something primal and raw in those emotions, though a part of me wanted to protect her, to keep her close, no matter what.

I didn't say anything, just pressed the accelerator down further, and we were off, whizzing in a blur past the scene and into the dark. The blackness within me was not about to go anywhere. It was getting worse.