"I kept calm and carried the weight of the rift, pulled him in tighter each time he was drifting away."
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As I opened my eyes, darkness greeted me. A sharp pain pierced my head, making me wince as I clutched the side of my face.
The familiar ache was nothing compared to the memories that crashed into me all at once—the sound of a gunshot, Grant's lifeless body, and the fear that had swallowed me whole. I bit back a sob as tears slipped down my cheeks, my breath hitching in the dark room.
"Emerald." Armen's voice, strained and weak, cut through my panic like a lifeline. I turned toward the sound, my vision adjusting to the thin stream of moonlight creeping through a dusty window.
"A-Armen," I whispered, my voice cracking as I moved towards him desperately.
He was sitting in the corner, his back against the wall, one hand pressed against his side, where I had hastily bandaged him earlier. His face twisted with pain, but he still forced a small smile when he saw me.
"I'm here, green. It's okay," he said, but the way his voice wavered betrayed the lie.
His eyes held a darkness I'd never seen before, a depth of despair and anger that made my blood run cold. I nestled into his good side, trembling as his arm wrapped protectively around me.
"I'm scared, Armen," I confessed, my voice barely more than a breath as I let the tears fall freely now.
"I know," he said quietly, his grip on me tightening protectively.
"I won't let them hurt you, I promise." The conviction in his voice was fierce, almost wild, like he was holding onto sanity by the thinnest thread. But even as he said it, I could see the hopelessness in his eyes.
Then, as if reality was mocking our moment of solace, heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway.
My heart raced, terror slicing through my veins like ice. Armen shifted, his face hardening, and he grabbed my hand.
"No matter what happens, don't say a word," he whispered urgently, his eyes boring into mine. "Trust me, Emerald. I'll get you out of here, no matter what it takes."
The door flew open with a bang, light flooding the room. A tall man, his face twisted in contempt, stood framed in the doorway. His eyes scanned the room and then zeroed in on Armen and me.
"Armen," the man said, his voice thick with a Russian accent that made my skin crawl. His gaze flicked to me, and his lips curled in a sneer.
"So this is the Italian's wife," He said, stepping closer, his eyes moving over me before a sinister grin spread over his lips, "I can see why you have all these men wrapped around your fingers."
