I watch him pace, three steps one direction, pivot, three steps back. Like a caged animal. The guards are still watching me warily, probably trying to figure out if they should restrain me or not, but Suha doesn’t seem to care that I’m standing.
“When I took over, there were... disagreements about the succession,” Suha continues, his voice tight with pain and fury. “My father left everything to me. The business, the territory, the whole syndicate. Kyungho thought he deserved it more. Thought because he’d been my father’s right hand for thirty years, he’d earned the position.”
He laughs, sharp and humorless. “So I pushed him out. Stripped him of his titles, his territory, his power. Let him keep his life because he’s family, but that was it. He ran before I could decide whether that was a mistake or not.”
The blood is still flowing, dripping onto the expensive carpet. I can smell it now, copper and salt, and underneath that the sharp spike of Suha’s pheromones. They’re all over the place, broadcasting pain and rage and something that might be fear, even though he’d never admit it.
“You need a doctor,” I say, because he’s still bleeding and pacing and not doing anything about the hole in his side.
“I need my uncle’s head on a fucking spike,” Suha snaps back. He stops pacing long enough to glare at me. “And I need you to sit the fuck down before I remember you’re supposed to be obedient.”
But he doesn’t sound convincing. His voice wavers slightly on the last word, and when he takes another step, his leg buckles. Just for a second, just enough that I see it.
I move without thinking, closing the distance between us and reaching for him. His guards definitely react to that, weaponsactually clearing holsters this time, but Suha holds up a hand to stop them even as he tries to push me away.
“Don’t,” he growls, but there’s no real force behind it.
“You’re bleeding all over your fancy carpet,” I point out, ignoring the guns pointed at my head. “At least let me look at it.”
For a long moment, he just stares at me, his jaw clenched tight enough that I can see the muscle jumping. Then something in his expression shifts, some of that fury bleeding away into exhaustion.
“Fine,” he grits out. “But if you try anything stupid, Haesung will put a bullet in your skull.”
I glance at the massive guard by the door, who nods grimly to confirm this is absolutely true. Great. Nothing like performing first aid at gunpoint.
Suha lets me guide him to the bed, sitting down heavily on the edge. Up close the damage looks worse. The bullet went through his side, just above his hip, and while it doesn’t look like it hit anything vital, he’s losing blood fast. His shirt is completely ruined, stuck to his skin with drying blood.
“I need to take this off,” I say, gesturing to the shirt.
He nods, lifting his arms slightly so I can work the buttons. My hands are steadier than I expected, considering there are still guns pointed at me, and I’m naked and collared, and this is absolutely insane. But I’ve patched myself up after enough fights to know the basics, and right now Suha needs someone who isn’t going to faint at the sight of blood.
The shirt peels away from the wound with a wet sound that makes my stomach turn. The entry wound is on his left side, just above his hip, a neat hole that’s still oozing. I lean around to check his back and find the exit wound, larger and messier, but at least it means the bullet went through clean.
“Through and through,” I say, mostly to myself. “That’s good. Means we don’t have to dig anything out.”
“How reassuring,” Suha says dryly, but his voice is strained.
I look up at the guards. “I need towels, water, antiseptic if you have it. And bandages. A lot of bandages.”
Haesung looks at Suha for confirmation. When Suha nods, he disappears into what I assume is the bathroom, returning with an armful of supplies. I spread everything out on the bed, trying to remember everything Wooil taught me about treating wounds after that time I got stabbed in a bar fight.
“This is going to hurt,” I warn, pressing a clean towel against the wound to slow the bleeding.
Suha’s hand shoots out and grabs my wrist, his grip crushing. “Just do it.”
I apply pressure, watching his face for any sign that I’m making it worse. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t make a sound, just stares at the wall with that same furious expression. His pheromones are still spiking, filling the room with the scent of an alpha in pain, and I feel the bond pulling at something in my chest, urging me to comfort him, to submit, to make the hurt stop.
I ignore it and keep working.
The bleeding slows after a few minutes of steady pressure. I clean around the wound as carefully as I can, using the antiseptic that makes Suha’s jaw clench even tighter. The entry wound isn’t too bad, but the exit wound is ragged, torn flesh that’s going to need stitches if he doesn’t want it to scar worse than it already will.
“You should go to a hospital,” I say, knowing even as the words leave my mouth that he won’t.
“Can’t,” he says shortly. “Too many questions. Too many opportunities for whoever shot me to try again.”
“So you’re just going to bleed out in your bedroom instead?”
His eyes cut to me, sharp and dangerous. “I have a doctor on call. He’ll be here within the hour. Until then, you’re going to keep your mouth shut and do what I tell you.”
