Page 79 of Theta

For that split-second, all of my training and experience at staying calm in emergencies flies out the window as I see Killian, the man I love, covered in blood. I can't breathe.

The world goes fuzzy and my head pounds.

"Hey, whoa. I'm fine. Take a deep breath for me, sweetheart. I'm absolutely fine. It's not even mine." He wipes a hand over his face. "Well, most of it. Some of it."

I shut my eyes and force myself to breathe in and out slowly three times, counting to four with each breath in, each breath out. I open them again, shrug one arm out of the backpack strap, and find the first aid supplies he just bought. The plastic cap of the deodorant stick is smashed to pieces, but that seems to be the only casualty of my tuck-and-roll. I use a gauze pad to dab the blood off his face, and discover that he's not totally incorrect—at least half of the blood painting his face is not his. But the other half is, and it's coming from a pair of deep cuts at the corner of his left eye and the bridge of his nose.

"This one nearly had your number," I mutter.

He stoically allows me to dab and press at the cuts in a mostly vain effort to slow the bleeding. Killian touches a sore spot near my right ear. "This one almost had yours."

I touch the spot, and I have a faint memory of something stinging me there during the fight at the flat. "Oh. I forgot about that."

He bats my hands away. "I'm fine. Faces bleed a lot."

I grab his wrist, hard. "Killian? Let me."

His eyebrows fly up at the sharp command in my voice, and he holds up both hands, palms out. "Yes ma'am."

I smirk. "Good boy." I fix my attention on his face, dabbing and pressing, folding the gauze, dabbing and pressing until the flow slows to a seep. "You should have a stitch here," I mutter, eying the long, deep cut near his temple more to myself than him. "But it'll heal. You'll have a heck of a scar."

"Hopefully you can live with my newly scarred face," he murmurs.

"Live with, huh?"

"You know what I mean."

I spray antiseptic onto a clean piece of gauze and dab the cuts, and then repeat this several times. "We need some superglue."

He frowns at me. "Superglue?"

I nod. "Yeah. Great for minor cuts like this. Obviously, medical-grade is best because it's formulated for application to open wounds, but regular old superglue works in a pinch. I use it at home for little cuts. It stops the bleeding, flakes away on its own, and forms a water-tight barrier that also keeps out bacteria and whatever else." I eye his face. "It's gonna keep trickling for a while."

He grabs a piece of gauze and clutches it. "Thanks for patching me up, Nurse Binyamin."

"I could have helped, Killy," I say.

He shakes his head slowly. “The room was too small for both of us to be able to fight effectively. I also happen to know that you're way better at pratfalls than I am. I'd have snapped an ankle pulling that shit." He glances up at the window ten feet overhead.

My stomach flips and my heart pounds; he's telling the truth, just not all of it. "You're trying to protect me, Killy. Don't think I don’t see what you're doing."

His eyes are soft. "Hell, yes I am, Story. I'm absolutely trying to protect you. You've been through enough. If I can take some of the burden from you by doing the bulk of the wetwork, then I'll gladly do so."

"I can handle it, Killian," I say, my voice dangerously quiet.

I feel him go still and tense at the tone of my voice. "Hey. I know. That's not why. I know what you're capable of. I do not doubt you in the fucking slightest. But there’s gonna be plenty of killing to go around before this is over, honey." He shoves the pistol into the back of his jeans and cups my face. "You're a healer, Story. It's who you are. Yes, you're a scarily effective killer when you need to be. I just don't want you to have to be that. You don't like it."

“And you do?" I ask. “Because that's not concerning at all."

"No, of course I don't like it." He looks away, hands dropping. "You were trained for your own protection. Self-defense. So you can take care of yourself if shit were to ever hit the fan. And you can. There's no one I'd rather have at my side in this than you." He brings his eyes back to mine. "But it’s different for me—I’ve always known that I'd follow in Dad's footsteps. I know Bryn is better at all this shit than I am, but this is my family legacy, too. It's who my dad is, it's who my mom is, it's who Bryn is, and it's who I am."

“You’re always comparing yourself to Bryn and Cal," I point out.

"They both cast pretty big shadows."

"You're not in anyone's shadow," I whisper. "You shine every bit as brightly as they do."

He shrugs. "That you think so is all I care about.