His After The Heartbreak (BL)-Chapter 171: Wake Up!!!

Chapter 171- Wake Up!!

Declan's POV

I pressed my foot harder on the gas.

Speeding like hell through the road.

The world was a blur outside the windshield, but I didn't care.

I didn't even blink when my phone vibrated.

I reached with one hand, eyes still on the road.

It wasn't a call.

It was a message.

I glanced down—just for a second—to see what it was. freewebnøvel.coɱ

Big mistake.

My entire body froze.

I saw red.

Debited: $200,000,000

Two hundred. Fucking. Million.

Gone.

Gone in one sweep.

They didn't even leave a damn dollar.

The only thing left in that account was my fucking name.

They cleaned me out.

For a second, I just stared. I couldn't even think.

"Are you fucking serious right now?" I whispered.

But no... no anger came.

Not even panic.

Just rage.

Pure, raw rage that filled my entire chest like fire.

That was it.

No more mercy.

No more waiting.

I looked at the road ahead and shook my head.

We weren't going to make it to the hospital.

It was still far. Way too far.

Beatrice wasn't going to last that long.

I knew it.

She was barely hanging on.

"Then I'll do the damn job myself," I growled.

I twisted the wheel sharply and turned into a dark, narrow street.

No lights. No traffic. Just silence and shadows.

I slammed the brakes and brought the car to a full stop.

Didn't even care if the people chasing us would find us.

Let them come.

Let them try.

I was done running.

I jumped out of the car and yanked the door open.

The smell of blood hit me straight in the face.

It was strong. Too strong.

But I didn't flinch.

I reached in and touched her cheek.

Still warm.

Still breathing.

Good.

I moved fast—ripping off part of my shirt, tying it around the wound, pressing down as hard as I could.

She groaned weakly, her body twitching.

"Good girl," I muttered. "That means you can still feel it."

I kept applying pressure, even though the blood soaked through the cloth almost immediately.

"Stay with me, Beatrice. Don't you fucking leave me here."

She didn't respond.

But she was still breathing.

It's crazy.

So fucking ironic that my entire account just got wiped clean—every last damn dollar gone—and I didn't even flinch.

Not even a blink.

Not a curse.

Not a scream.

Just silence in my head.

Because right now...

The only thing I could think about was Beatrice.

Not the money.

Not the betrayal.

Not the fact that I've lost everything.

All that mattered... was saving her.

I'll think about the money later.

I'll hunt those bastards later.

But for now—

I just need her alive.

"God, please..." I muttered as I leaned down and picked her up in bridal style. She was so light in my arms. Too light. Like life was already slipping out of her bones.

I carried her out and laid her gently on the floor beside the car.

That's when it hit me.

I didn't have the fucking tools.

I was about to start removing a damn bullet from someone's body—like I was some trained surgeon—but I didn't have a single instrument. Not even a glove.

What the fuck was I thinking?

I stared at her body, blood still staining her shirt.

No.

I wasn't giving up. I couldn't.

There had to be something.

Then it came to me.

I remembered the drink I kept in the car—a strong one.

A bottle with 87% alcohol content. Burned like hell when you drank it.

It had to help.

I rushed back into the car, grabbed the bottle, and started looking around for something sharp—something I could use.

My eyes caught the flathead screwdriver in the glove compartment. It wasn't meant for this kind of job, but I didn't have time to be picky.

That was all I had.

I grabbed it and the bottle and was about to drop them on the ground when my brain screamed at me—

Contamination.

Fuck.

I couldn't place this shit directly on the floor. Not with her life on the line.

I ran back to the car again and pulled out one of my extra shirts—thank God I had one in there.

I laid it flat on the ground next to her, placing the bottle and the screwdriver on it. It wasn't perfect, but at least I could pretend this was some makeshift hospital.

I started by pouring alcohol over my hands. It stung like hell because of the cuts I didn't even know I had.

Then I poured more over the screwdriver.

Soaked it until it dripped.

I knelt beside her and looked up at the sky.

"Help me, God," I whispered. "Please."

"This is my first time trying to remove a bullet. I swear, I've never done this before. I only know how to put bullets inside people... not take them out."

I gave a dry, bitter chuckle.

"I just hope... I don't end up removing her damn heart by mistake."

My hands started to tremble again.

I wasn't scared.

No, fuck that.

I was disgusted.

Disgusted beyond words.

The moment I peeled back her shirt and saw the bullet wound properly—raw, bloody, deep—it was like my stomach did a backflip.

Not from fear.

But from the thought that I was about to stick my hand inside someone's body.

That shit isn't normal.

The sound her flesh made as I touched the area—wet, soft, like pressing into raw meat—it almost made me throw up.

Almost.

I took a deep breath. My nose was filled with the smell of blood and alcohol.

"Fuck," I muttered as I tried to steady myself.

I reached for the screwdriver first. I thought maybe I could just poke a little, pull the bullet out quickly, and it'd be over.

But it wasn't working.

The metal slipped. It wasn't sharp enough.

It wasn't made for this.

I dropped it back on the cloth with a loud clang and looked at her again. She was still unconscious. Still breathing, but just barely.

"I'm sorry, Beatrice," I whispered. "But I'm gonna have to do this the hard way."

I poured more alcohol all over my hands. It burned like hell because of the cuts, but I didn't care.

With one last breath, I placed my fingers inside the wound.

The second my hand went in, I felt it—her soft flesh, the heat, the sticky blood.

I gagged a little. I nearly threw up right there on her body.

"Fuck fuck fuck," I muttered under my breath, my jaw clenched so tight I thought my teeth would break.

I was searching inside, moving my fingers slowly, trying not to hurt her more than she already was.

"Where is it... where the fuck is the bullet?" I growled, frustration bubbling in my chest.

I couldn't feel it.

It should've been close to the surface, but it wasn't.

"If only you didn't touch the wound, Beatrice... if only you didn't press it," I muttered. "It wouldn't have pushed it deeper."

Now the damn thing had traveled further inside.

"Ooh fuck," I groaned, sweat already forming on my forehead. "Come on, come on."

My fingers kept digging carefully until—finally—I felt something small and hard.

That was it. The bullet.

My fingers wrapped around it. I pulled, slowly, carefully—

And it came out.

Just like that.

I yanked it out, covered in blood, and exhaled deeply like I had just come back to life myself.

I placed the bullet gently on the cloth, then tore a piece of clean fabric from the shirt I'd used earlier. I poured alcohol on it, wiped it down, and pressed it hard against her stomach to stop the bleeding.

"Hold on," I whispered, using another strip to tie it around her tightly.

I glanced at the bullet again, now clean... and my eyes widened.

No.

No fucking way.

This was my bullet.

My own goddamn gun.

They used my weapon against me.

They shot her with my own bullets.

I stared at the small, deadly piece of metal like it was a joke from hell.

"The fucking audacity," I hissed, dropping it back on the cloth.

I turned back to her and gently tapped her cheek.

"Beatrice," I called.

She didn't move.

I tapped again, a little harder this time.

"Beatrice, wake up. Please."

Nothing.

My heart dropped. I leaned closer, listening for her breath. It was faint. Too faint.

"You can't fucking die here," I growled. "After everything I just did—after all the blood, after sticking my damn hand inside you to pull that thing out—"

I shouted now, my voice bouncing off the quiet street.

"Wake up!"

No answer.

I didn't wait.

I placed my hands on her chest and started CPR. Pushing down again and again. Breathing into her mouth. Repeating the steps the way I remembered from years ago—badly, but still trying.

"Come on, Beatrice. Don't do this. Not after everything. Wake the fuck up!"