Ugh I hate moving! I hope we don't move again for a very long time! Anyway, sorry for the wait. Thanks to my wonderful reviewers!

Chapter 25

Shot Through the Heart

An angel's smile is what you sell

You promise me heaven and put me through hell

Chains of love got a hold on me

When passion's a prison you can't break free

-"Shot Through the Heart" by Bon Jovi

I had to go back to the hospital the next day for a follow-up visit. They had been reluctant to release me in the first place, and I'm sure FBI involvement was the only reason I'd been discharged at all. I was still iffy about letting the boys back near the hospital, what with things having become so dangerous, so Joan had asked off work to take me.

"How do your legs feel?" she asked as we sat in the waiting room. She was flipping halfheartedly through a 'Home and Garden' magazine, not really paying attention to it.

I shrugged, fiddling with the drawstring of my sweatpants absently. "Fine, I guess. I'm still taking the pain meds."

"Hopefully you'll be able to stop-" she began, but she stopped suddenly as a news report came on the miniature television above us. We both listened.

"Another victim was found last night in the abandoned warehouse that holds the largest torture chamber ever discovered on U.S. soil," the newscaster was announcing grimly. "The man, identified as sixty-two year old Costin Tirlea, was a Romanian immigrant known to be involved in a notorious torture gang. Though police have yet to make an official statement, many are wondering if this is the work of the Saints."

Joan and I exchanged a look, but we knew we couldn't discuss anything there. The hospital might have been the least safe place I'd ever been in. Thankfully my name was called not long after so we didn't have much time to dwell.

My doctor, a broad-shouldered man with a too-bright smile named Dr. Townsend, walked into the examination room about twenty minutes after we'd been shown in.

He turned that bright smile on Joan and me. "Well, good to see you again, Naomi. How are we feeling today?"

"We're feeling fine," I answered stoically.

He ignored my sarcastic remark, checking my chart. "Let's have a look at those legs, shall we?" Joan helped me out of my sweatpants, tucking them neatly over her arm, and Dr. Townsend clipped away the bandages.

He peered at my legs closely. My thighs, the parts that hadn't been burned at all, were quite hairy; it was difficult to shave your legs when half your skin had burnt off. He stared at them without comment for what seemed like an eternity. Finally he straightened up and scribbled something on my chart.

"How long do you wear the bandages every day?" he asked me, setting down the chart and leaning against the counter.

I shrugged. "All the time. I only take them off when I wash them and put the ointment on."

"Well, here's the thing," he said, as though talking to someone of very limited intelligence. "The skin needs to breathe in order to continue healing. Wearing bandages around your legs all the time is only hindering the process. I know it's November and they're calling for freezing temperatures next week, but, at least while you're at home, you should try and wear shorts and let the skin breathe."

I frowned. I sure as hell didn't want to be wearing shorts, showing off my grotesque disfigurement. Especially not in front of Murphy.

Dr. Townsend continued, oblivious to my misgivings. "Now, if you have to go out and wear pants, I'd keep the bandages on to protect from rubbing, but I'd try to keep that to a minimum. Also, what kind of sheets do you typically sleep on?"

"Cotton?"

"Good." He was still grinning that stupid doctor grin. "Why don't you start sleeping with your legs un-bandaged too. You can put the ointment on in the mornings and just wash your legs before getting into bed. I think we'll see a real improvement by Thanksgiving."

I didn't answer, simply glared at him sullenly, so Joan said quickly, "Thanks, Dr. Townsend. We're glad to hear she's coming along so well."

He thanked us and said goodbye, and a nurse came to re-bandage my legs for the trip home. Joan said nothing until we were safely in the car, knowing that I was in a foul mood.

"I have a lot of really comfortable cotton shorts," she said softly, steering the car towards the Irish neighborhood. "You can borrow some if you'd like."

"I have plenty of shorts," I answered shortly, crossing my arms over my coat. I just didn't want to wear them.

She didn't press the matter. Joan was nice like that.

She only stayed long enough to tell Connor in a hurried whisper what Dr. Townsend had said. She probably told him that I was unhappy about it too. She was mean like that. Then she said a quick goodbye and left.

I had settled myself on the sofa and turned the television on, wondering how long I'd get away with wearing pants. Not long, it seemed. Both Connor and Murphy came and planted themselves directly between me and the television set.

"What?" I demanded crossly, trying to peer around them.

"Joan said your doctor told you to wear shorts while you're at home and take the bandages off your legs," Connor said sternly. "Now we'd hate to have to make you follow orders..." He left it hanging, almost like a threat.

I glared at them for a long moment, and then I got up and stormed into my bedroom the best I could using one crutch.

I had to look long and hard for a pair of shorts. It wasn't that I didn't have any; they were just all at the back of my closet. It was November, after all.

Sitting on the edge of my bed, I pulled the shorts on before I took the bandages off. My legs looked so raw and disgusting. I hated them. I made up my mind then and there that, if I had to wear shorts, I just wouldn't leave my bedroom.

That lasted all of a few hours. Then Murphy was knocking on my door, telling me that dinner was ready. I could tell it was stew again; the delicious smell wafted throughout the entire apartment. It was the only thing they could cook decently, after all.

"I'm not very hungry," I lied as my stomach gave a particularly distressed growl. "You and Connor just go ahead and eat without me."

"Fat fucking chance," he cracked, opening the door. I froze, horrified. I saw him glance for the briefest of moments at my scarred legs and misshapen, deformed feet. Then his gaze snapped up to my face, but I couldn't meet his eyes. I was too ashamed. "Come on, you haven't eaten all fucking day. And Connor slaved over this fucking stew. He'll be crushed it you don't eat any of it."

I glared at him for a moment. I felt like a sullen, chastised child and I didn't like it. Though I'd never been vain, I'd also never felt that I was horrifying to look at. Now I did. Eventually I reached for my crutch and got up, hobbling after him into the kitchen.

To Connor's credit, he didn't look at my legs when I was looking. I know they both must have been examining them when I was focused on my bowl. My legs and feet were like train wrecks. They were impossible to look away from.

"It's been a long week," Connor said, yawning. "What do you two say we pop in a movie and call it a night early?" He got to his feet and started carrying dishes to the sink. Since I had gotten back from the hospital, the boys had taken over the cooking and cleaning. It was nice of them to share the work, but honestly it left me a little bored.

I let out a snicker. "And what movies do you have that would interest me?"

"What's with the fucking attitude?" Murphy grinned. "You think we don't have good taste in movies?"

"I'll have you know that we have excellent fucking taste in movies," Connor added over his shoulder.

I crossed my arms. "Name one."

"I don't know about you two, but I'm in the mood for Seven." He was grinning.

I couldn't suppress my groan. "Of course you'd choose that sort of screwed-up movie to watch. Why am I not surprised?"

"Are you saying it's not a good movie?" Murphy arched his eyebrows at me.

"Well, I'm not saying that..."

So, once the twins had cleaned up the dinner dishes, we settled onto the couch, me in the middle like usual. They really seemed to think they were my bodyguards sometimes. Connor had turned off the overhead light, so the only light in the room came from the television.

I was actually so engrossed in the movie that I hardly noticed when Murphy put his hand on my knee. But then I did notice and my entire body tensed up. He didn't once look my way when he felt me tense, and he didn't move his hand.

We went to bed together when the movie was over. I rolled over onto my side, terrified that Murphy would touch my bare leg with his, as he usually slept in nothing more than a pair of boxers. He pressed up against me and started kissing my neck.

Maybe it was because I had so much pent-up energy or maybe it was because I liked him so much, but I couldn't resist him. He had me naked in a matter of seconds, the blankets thrown off. I was glad it was dark. At least he couldn't see the scars.

He kissed down my jawline and neck, across my collarbone and over the swell of my breasts. Tonight he only spared a few quick sucks for my nipples, then moved down. He spent more time on my brand, the half a heart. He pressed his lips to the raised flesh, running his tongue over it sensuously. Then he moved down lower, over my hipbone and down the inside of my thigh. The moan escaped my throat before I could stop it.

Then his lips were moving down further, towards my kneecap.

"Murphy," I said warningly, trying to stop him.

He ignored me, forcing my hand down to the mattress. His lips moved further down, and my breath hitched as his lips tenderly pressed against the first part of the burn. I held perfectly still, frozen, as he methodically kissed every inch of my burned skin, even across the bridge of my foot. Then he moved up my other leg, his lips sensuous and enticing. Then he was attached to my mouth again and I was more turned on than I could ever remember being. The telephone rang but we both ignored it.

He pressed himself to me firmly, our hips rocking together subconsciously. His hand slipped down below, between my thighs, massaging, exploring.

And then the door swung open, banging heavily against the wall. I let out a shriek and yanked the blankets up to cover the both of us.

"What the fuck, Connor?" Murphy growled, squinting through the darkness. "Ever heard of knocking?" Then he stopped, seeing the stricken look on his brother's face. "Connor? What the hell is going on?"

"It's Joan," he finally said. "The woman, Ana. She broke into Joan's apartment just a little bit ago and tried to kill her."

I sat straight up, panicked, clutching the sheets to my breasts. "Oh my god! Is she okay? Where is she now?"

"Smecker's got her. He's bringing her here for safekeeping." Connor's voice was shaking.

"Fuck," Murphy groaned. "Give us a fucking second, would you?"

Connor finally seemed to notice we were naked and hurried away, pulling the door shut behind him. Murphy automatically reached for his discarded shorts.

I quickly followed his lead, reaching for my own shorts and tank top. "Do you think she's okay? Oh, god. What if she's hurt?"

"If Smecker's got her, she's in good hands," Murphy answered grimly, pulling his jeans on. He didn't bother with his shirt. He helped me to my feet and handed me my crutch.

There was a pounding on the door as we entered the main part of the apartment, and Connor hurried forward and pulled it open. Smecker stood there in a heavy wool overcoat. Joan, huddled beside him, was shivering and sniffling. Connor stood aside and let them in. Though he'd never say so outright, I could tell he was really worried.

"I can't stay," Smecker said in a low voice, looking around as though he thought someone might have followed him. "Just keep her hidden. Keep her safe. And all of you be on your fucking guard."

"Aye, we'll do just that," Connor replied grimly. Smecker gave a short smile devoid of all mirth and was gone, leaving the four of us alone in the apartment.

I hobbled over to Joan and, dropping my crutch, enveloped her in the biggest hug I could give her. She burst into tears at once, burying her face in my shoulder. I steered her toward the couch the best I could on my still-sore feet and sat her down. Murphy hurried to pour her a shot of the strongest liquor we had in the house.

After she had taken three shots, her crying turned into sniffles again. "Tell us what happened," I told her softly.

She hiccuped, either from the liquor or the tears. "I had just gotten off work," she began in a shaky voice. "I got home and was just watching some television before I went to bed, eating a snack. And then there she was, like she'd been in my house all fucking day. She pointed a gun at my head. If I wasn't so used to bar fights at McGinty's I'd have a bullet through my brain right now. I threw a lamp at her and ran. I never looked back to see if she was following." She hiccuped again. Her hands hadn't quit shaking.

Connor and Murphy exchanged a glance, and this time they included me. I knew what they were thinking: we needed to get Ana and fast. She was gunning for everyone close to us now. She was one wily bitch.

Joan sniffed again. "I-I don't know what to do!"

"It's okay," Connor told her seriously, kneeling in front of her so she had to look him in the face. "You're going to stay with us for a while, until this whole thing blows over. We won't let anything happen to you. I promise."

"Like you didn't let anything happen to Mimi?" she snapped. There was an instant silence. I knew she regretted the words as soon as they'd left her lips, but they couldn't be taken back. They hung like a stagnant poison in the air around us.

Finally Murphy spoke, his voice like acid. "We learn from our mistakes, Joan. It won't happen again."

She looked down at her hands, red in the face, embarrassed. I decided to save her.

"Come on, let's get you to bed," I told her, getting heavily to my feet with the help of my crutch. Murphy looked like he was going to protest so I gave him a stern look and said, "You can sleep in your own room for a little while."

"No," Joan said, shrugging out of my grasp. "It's okay. I can sleep on the couch or something. I can't kick anyone out of their bed."

I paused. "Well, I do only have the one small bed," I mused. "There's Murphy's bed in the other bedroom though. It'll be a whole bed to yourself."

She gave me a suspicious look. "Why do you sound like this is something I might say no to?"

"Because it's Connor's room."

She looked at me long and hard, then glanced briefly at Connor, her eyes still red. "It'll be fine so long as he keeps his hands to himself."

It took us a while to get everyone settled back in to go to sleep. I had to find clothes of mine that would fit Joan (she was a few sizes bigger than me, especially in the chest department) and then I had to convince her that Connor would do nothing more than fall asleep and snore like an ass on his side of the room.

Eventually Murphy and I were able to get back in bed, but the mood was ruined. I lay there for a long time, and I could tell from his uneven breathing that he did too. Things were definitely out of hand here.

I feel like I go on and on about Mimi's injuries, but since this is a first-person story and it was such a traumatic experience, I feel like Mimi's thoughts would revolve around this a lot. I hope it's not boring or anything. Please review!