The air vibrated with an inhuman sound, and the entire room exploded, chaos unfolding. I managed to look up, my neck twisting painfully, and a brutal form was rushing toward us, and the gouge of cold metal left my skull as Nick raised the gun and fired.

Silence.

My ears were temporarily numb, my body resounding with the force of my terrified heartbeat. The smothering weight was gone. I rolled to my side and opened my blurry eyes. Two men were brawling in a pounding, choking, jaw-cracking dogfight, sweat and blood flying.

Hardy was on top of Nick, pummeling over and over. I could see the fight draining out of Nick as damage accumulated, bones fracturing, skin rupturing, and still Hardy wouldn't stop. There was blood everywhere — Hardy's left side was drenched and welling crimson.

"Hardy," I cried out, lurching to my knees. "Hardy, stop." He didn't hear me. He had lost his mind, every impulse and thought bent on destruction. He was going to kill Nick. And judging from the rate his own blood was pouring out, he would kill himself in the process.

The gun, knocked out of Nick's hand, had skittered a few yards away. I crawled over and picked it up. "Hardy, leave him alone now! That's enough! It's over. Hardy — "

Nothing I said or did was going to matter. He was on an adrenaline-fueled rampage.

I had never seen so much blood. I couldn't believe he hadn't passed out yet.

"Damn it, Hardy, I need you," I shouted.

He paused and looked over at me, panting. His eyes were slightly unfocused. "I need you," I repeated, staggering to my feet. I went to him and pulled at his arm. "Come with me. Come to the sofa."

He resisted, looking down at Nick, who had passed out, his face swollen and battered.

"It's okay now," I said, continuing to tug at Hardy. "He's down. It's over. Come with me. Come on." I repeated the words several times, coaxing and commanding and hauling him to the sofa. Hardy looked ashen and haggard, his face contorting as the murderous instinct faded and pain began to hit him. He tried to sit, ended up collapsing, his fists suspended in midair. He'd been shot on his side, but there was so much blood, I couldn't see the exact location or extent of the damage.

Still holding the gun, I ran to the kitchen and grabbed some folded dishtowels. I set the gun on the coffee table and ripped Hardy's shirt open.

"Haven," he said through thready breaths, "did he hurt you? Did he — "

"No. I'm fine." I wiped at the blood and found the wound, a surprisingly small, neat hole. But I couldn't see an exit wound, which mean the bullet had gone in and possibly ricocheted, doing damage to the spleen, liver, or kidney . . . I wanted to burst into tears, but I forced them back and placed the pad of dishtowels over the wound. "Hold still. I'm going to put pressure on your side to slow the bleeding.

He let out a groan as I pushed downward. His lips were turning gray. "Your ear — "

"It's nothing. Nick hit me with the gun, but it wasn't — "

"I'll kill him — " He was trying to rise from the sofa.

I shoved Hardy back down. "Stay still, you idiot! You've been shot. Do not move." I put his hand over the folded dishtowels to maintain the pressure while I dashed to get the phone.

I called 911, David, and Jack, while keeping the dishtowels clamped tightly on the wound.

Jack was the first to reach my apartment. "Holy shit." He took in the scene before him, my ex-husband stirring on the floor, Hardy and me on the sofa. "Haven, are you — "

"I'm fine. Make sure Nick doesn't do anything else."

Jack stood over my ex-husband with an expression I'd never seen him wear before. "As soon as I get the chance," he told Nick in a deadly quiet voice, "I'm going to drop you in your tracks and gut you like a feral hog."

The paramedics arrived, followed soon by the police, while the building security guards kept anxious neighbors from coming in. I wasn't aware of the exact moment Nick was taken out of the apartment by the police, I was too absorbed in Hardy. He drifted in and out of consciousness, his skin clammy, his breathing weak and fast. He seemed confused, asking me at least three times what had happened, and if I was okay.

"Everything's fine," I murmured, stroking his tumbled hair, gripping his free hand firmly while a paramedic inserted a large bore needle for an IV. "Be quiet."

"Haven . . . had to tell you . . . "

"Tell me later."

"Mistake . . . "

"I know. It's okay. Hush and be still."

I could tell he wanted to say something else, but the other paramedic put him on high-flow oxygen and applied patches for a cardiac monitor, and fitted him with a stabilizing board for transport. They were fast and efficient. What EMS professionals call the "golden hour" had started: the time between when a victim was shot and the time he arrived at a trauma center for treatment. If more than sixty minutes passed before he got treated, his chances of survival started to drop.

I rode with Hardy in the ambulance while Jack drove to the hospital. It was only for Hardy's sake that I managed to stay outwardly calm. Inside, I felt an anguish that seemed too great for a human heart to withstand.

We arrived at the ambulance entrance, and the paramedics lifted Hardy on a gurney up to the building floor, which was slightly higher than the floor of the ambulance.

Liberty and Gage were already at the trauma unit, having been alerted by Jack. I guessed the rest of my family wouldn't be far behind. I hadn't given a thought to how I must have looked, all wild-eyed and bloodstained, but I gathered from their expressions that my appearance was a cause for concern. Liberty put her jacket over my shirt and cleaned my face with some baby wipes from her purse.