The bullet had punched high into the bicep. Not deep, but deep enough. The muscle pulsed like it had its own angry heartbeat.
I took a long swallow of vodka straight from the bottle. The burn steadied my hands a little.
Then I poured the rest over the blade of my knife.
And over the wound.
The alcohol hit raw meat like liquid fire.
“Fuck—”
I slammed my good hand against the sink and forced myself to breathe through the white-hot blaze, jaw locked so tight I thought my teeth might crack. Blood and vodka ran down my arm in pink rivers, splashing into the basin.
The bullet sat shallow under the muscle. I could feel it when I pressed.
I tightened my jaw and pushed my fingers into the swollen flesh, forcing the muscle to compress around the metal. Pain exploded through my arm, sharp enough to make my vision flash white.
“Come on, you piece of shit…”
I pressed harder.
The skin split a little wider and the dark shape of the bullet finally surfaced through blood and tissue.
There you are.
Using the tip of the knife, I hooked it carefully and pulled.
The bullet slid free with a wet sound.
It dropped into the sink with a sharp metallicclinkagainst the porcelain.
For a moment I just stood there breathing hard, blood dripping from my arm while my fingers trembled from adrenaline and pain.
Then I poured vodka over the wound again, watching the liquid wash pink as it ran down into the drain.
From the emergency kit I pulled out gauze and pressed it hard against the hole in my arm. Fresh blood soaked into it almost immediately, but it slowed. Good enough.
I wrapped the bandage tight around my bicep, teeth clenched while I worked one-handed, binding the gauze in place until the bleeding finally stopped seeping through.
Pain throbbed deep in my bones, but it was nothing compared to the memory of Kira’s detached, frightened reaction to the massacre.
I needed to get clean before going back to her.
I stepped into the shower and turned the water ice-cold. Hot would only make it bleed worse. I kept the injured arm lifted out of the spray while I scrubbed the rest of the blood, dirt, and death off my skin. The water ran crimson for a long minute before it finally ran clear, carrying the night down the drain.
When I returned to her bedroom, the silence was complete. Her breathing was the only sound. She hadn’t moved. Still curled on her side like something broken and trying to stay small, her dark hair spilled across the pillow as if the night’s slaughter had never touched her.
But it had.
I eased onto the bed beside her. The moonlight revealed what I’d missed before—faint smears of blood on her skin. Her forehead. Her arms. The same places she’d gripped me, refused to let go.
Tomorrow, I promised silently.I’ll clean you up. I’ll take care of you. Nothing else matters.
I slid an arm around her waist and pulled her back against me. She responded instantly, a small sound leaving her lips as she shifted closer. She fit into me like instinct, like her body remembered where it belonged before her mind did.
The guilt returned, sharp and familiar, like a blade I’d learned to live with. She’d seen things most people would never recover from—blood on my hands, bodies on the ground,even seen her friend nearly assaulted. But today was different. Something cracked open inside her. Something raw, and terrifying. Icouldn’t explain it, couldn’t even name it. I only knew that it gutted me. I wanted to take her pain and swallow it whole.
I buried my face in her hair and breathed her in, my bandaged arm throbbing like fire where it wrapped around her. The wound pulled with every heartbeat, but I didn’t loosen my hold.
