Chapter Hundred and Twenty
"Markus..." Her voice was soft, strangled. Too soft.
His eyes darted to her body in his arms. Matilda lay sprawled on the glossy café floor, her legs folded awkwardly beneath her, crimson staining the sleeve of her blue dress.
Blood. Too many of them.
Her blood soaked into the floor beneath her like ink from a spilled bottle, spreading and pooling.
"Matilda!" he was already moving.
Her skin was getting cold, and clammy.
"It... it hurts," she whimpered again, her voice shaky, barely above a breath. "So much..."
"I know," he breathed, voice hoarse with disbelief. "I know, just, just hang in there, alright? You are going to be fine. You are going to be okay."
She winced as he adjusted her, pressing his palm over the wound. Blood seeped through his fingers.
"Don’t... don’t let me die on my birthday," she whispered, half a plea, half a joke but her lips were trembling, and her eyelids were fluttering.
"Shut up," he muttered, his feet doing their purpose. "You are not dying."
Markus turned on his heel and ran.
Outside, people were screaming and scattering, trying to get away from the scene. No one dared stop him as he carried her to his car, blood soaking into his shirt, his jaw clenched so tight it ached.
He opened the passenger door, eased her in, strapped her in with one arm, slammed his door shut, and floored the accelerator.
Tires screamed.
He did not care about the horns blasting at him and did not register the blinding headlights that swerved to avoid his reckless turns.
His only focus was the girl bleeding beside him, slumped against the seat, her breaths uneven.
"Stay awake, Matilda," he barked, glancing at her, then back at the road.
"I am... trying..." she whispered, eyes fluttering again.
His hand found hers and gripped it hard. "Then try harder." His tone was softer than the usual tone he always used for her.
Every red light was a green to hum. Every speed limit was a joke also. He took corners at impossible angles, weaving through traffic like a man possessed.
He swore at a driver who tried to cut him off, then pushed the car faster. The Villa was not far, but every second felt like an hour.
When he screeched to a stop at the gates, they opened without him needing to slow. The guards must have seen his face and the fury look in his eyes, even his fear, and knew better than to ask questions.
He barely let the car stop before he was pulling her out again, shouting for the doctor.
"Open the damn door!" he barked at the house staff, storming in with her in his arms.
The moment they saw the blood, they scattered, voices rising as they called for help.
Markus ignored them all. He carried her straight to the guest room closest to the hallway, his steps fast, heavy, determined.
"She got shot," he shouted the moment the doctor arrived. "She needs help. Now."
The doctor didn’t waste time. "Lay her on the bed."
He did. Gently.
She let out a soft groan as she landed on the mattress.
"I need space," the doctor said. "You too."
Markus hesitated, his fingers still stained red, and breathing erratic.
"I said out."
He left the room, only to find Ahmet blocking the hallway.
"What happened?" Ahmet asked, eyes sharp, voice low.
"She was shot," Markus replied, too blunt, too loud. "We were attacked."
Ahmet’s brows drew together. "And you brought her here?"
"She was bleeding out. What the fuck else was I supposed to do?"
"You know strangers are not allowed here, Markus," Ahmet’s tone shifted, a little colder, and more commanding.
Markus stepped forward, shoulders squared. "She is not a stranger to Asli. That makes her important. Just like I am important to you."
Ahmet did not reply immediately. His eyes flicked past Markus, toward the room.
"The girl better not be a liability."
"She’s not." Markus was getting angry and Ahmet must’ve gotten it. Markus had never been scared before.
"I know." Ahmet finally said as he tapped his back trying to calm him down.
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