Eli couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt actual terror. As a child, maybe, but never since he’d hit adulthood. “Please,” he heard himself whisper. His hand was clasped over his abdomen, fingers sticky with his own blood. The color’s off, he thought almost comically. It was as if he was watching himself die from some far away vantage point. “Don’t let me die,” he continued, trying to relay the importance of this moment to the woman standing above him. “Nat… please.”
He’d only seen this particular look in her eyes once before: the night that he’d rushed into her room and found her drenched in blood, screaming at the sneering corpse of a man who’d had a hand in her family’s murder. He’d worried for her then, but the fear he felt now - this was different; there was something wrong here, he could sense it, but he couldn’t see it. There was no bullet wound, no blood to signal bodily harm. “Baby, hold on,” he said gently running his hands down her body. He would find what was wrong; he would fix this. If not for her sake, then for his. He needed this woman, needed her alive and by his side. “Nat, I promise: I will not let you die tonight.”