Chapter 310
“Call the medics!” Dallas screamed, spinning his wheelchair and ramming it into the door of the box. “Move!”
Down on the track, the dust began to settle.
Eliza coughed, the acrid smell of airbag propellant filling her nose. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably. She unbuckled her belt, forced the jammed door open, and stumbled out onto the gravel.
She was bruised and dizzy, but alive.
She turned to look at the GTR.
The driver’s side was caved in, the door wrapped around the seat like tin foil.
Anson was slumped over the wheel. Blood ran down his face from a gash on his forehead. His left leg was pinned beneath the crushed dashboard at an unnatural angle.
He wasn’t moving.
Track marshals in orange jumpsuits were sprinting toward the wreck, fire extinguishers in hand.
Dallas ignored the pain. He ignored the fact that he shouldn’t be on his feet. He had practically thrown himself out of the car that brought them down to track level. Leaning heavily on Weston’s shoulder with one hand, the other gripping a cane so tightly his knuckles were white, he half-dragged, half-limped his way toward the red Ferrari, each step sending a fresh wave of agony up his shattered leg.
“Eliza!”
She was standing by the GTR, staring into the shattered window. She looked small. Fragile.
Dallas reached her and grabbed her shoulders. He ran his hands over her arms, her face, checking for broken bones, for blood.
“I’m okay,” she whispered. Her eyes were wide, fixed on Anson. “I’m okay. But he —”
Dallas looked past her.
The jaws of life were already chewing through the metal of Anson’s door, the sound a high-pitched whine that set teeth on edge.
Anson was conscious. Barely.
His face was a mask of blood and ash. He turned his head, his eyes finding Eliza.
Eliza took a step forward, pulling away from Dallas. She reached through the broken window and grabbed Anson’s hand. It was slick with blood.
“Why?” she choked out. “Why did you do that?”
Anson coughed — a wet, rattling sound. A faint, twisted smile touched his lips.
“Because you’re mine,” he wheezed. “Only I get to break you. No one else gets to kill you.”
The paramedics pulled him free. His left leg was a ruin, the bone shattered and tearing through the expensive racing suit.
Eliza covered her mouth, a sob escaping her throat.
“He saved me,” she whispered. “Dallas, he saved me.”
Dallas stood behind her, his hand hovering over her back but not touching her. He felt a cold weight settle in his stomach — heavier than grief.
It was debt.
Anson hadn’t just saved her life. He had bought it. He had sacrificed his own body to ensure that Eliza would never, ever be able to hate him completely again. It was the ultimate manipulation.
And it had worked.
Azalea came running up, tears streaming down her face. She tackled Eliza in a hug. “You’re alive! Oh my god, you’re alive!”
Nearby, Cathey stood by the ambulance, her face pale green, typing furiously on her phone.