Book 3: Enough Time

Eleni

I close my eyes on the floor in Dante’s arms and open them again somewhere warm and tan and lonely. Distantly, I can hear voices. My stomach aches.

My stomach! I shoot up, yank up the “I Heart NYC” shirt covering my abdomen for some reason, and probe the skin there. I was shot. Someone—Fyodor, judging by how much nicer his suit was—shot me in the stomach, like he knew exactly who I was. But there’s no gaping bullet hole, not even a careful line of black stitches.

Because I wore the stupid bulletproof vest, I’ve got a welt, a bruise so dark it’s almost black, and a hell of a headache from the bullet knocking me on my ass, and nothing more.

The voices raise slightly, and a door I hadn’t noticed yet opens. Dante steps in wearing a matching T-shirt with his arm in a sling. Behind him, Dr. Domino frowns.

“You’re up,” Dante says breathlessly.

Everything hits me at once. He’s here. I’m here. We’re both alive. And I don’t think he’d