Page 17 of Craving Sin

“Sorry, I was distracted. I’m running from the scene of a crime and got shot.”

“Shh.” My gaze shoots around like I expect someone to be close enough to have heard him, but then I remember it would be a good thing because maybe they would call the police, and I would be rescued.

“Turn around and face me.” He does as I say. “We need to get your shirt off.”

“Wait.” He looks around toward the bathrooms closer to the other side of the lot, and then the trees.

“Cameras?” I ask.

“None here. Probably by the bathroom.”

He doesn’t need to say that it would be impossible to see what we’re doing at this angle.

I’m all business as I unbutton his white shirt that’s covered in blood.

“Lean forward for me.”

He does, and there’s an exit wound, so the bullet will be back at the hospital.

“That’s good. It went all the way through. It’s impossible for me to tell how bad the bone or nerve damage is.”

“I’ll be fine,” he replies. “Though I’m sure you wish I weren’t.”

“That’s not true. I’m not like you. I don’t rejoice in the death of anyone.”

“Who said I do?”

“The fact that you shot that man so callously.”

“That man who would have killed us both if I hadn’t,” he counters.

“That doesn’t make it right,” I say. Luckily, I have saline solution in my bag, which I use to clean his wound. “You’re going to have a lot of soft tissue damage.”

“Sew it up so we can be on our way. I don’t want to be here for long.”

“Good thing I’m the physician, and you’re not. I’m not going to sew it up, as you say. It needs to be left open to debride and be irrigated. Otherwise, bacteria will be trapped in your wound, and that’s how you die.”

“Again, something that would make life easier for you.”

“I’m not you,” I tell him. “I save lives, not take them.”

He doesn’t respond, but I see his jaw tighten, see the way it ticks in anger, but I didn’t say anything that’s not true. If he doesn’t like who he is, he’s the only one who can change that.

I do a quick job of cleaning his injury and bandaging it, which, for now, is the best I can do. I don’t have antibiotics, but I do have some ibuprofen, so I give him four of those. My stalker takes them dry without any question.

I have a clean T-shirt in my gym bag, so I grab that and hand it to him. He cocks a brow, and I roll my eyes before sliding it over his head and pulling his arms through.

“I’m sorry,” I say, when he winces.

“Why do you care?” At first, I think the question is sarcastic, but when I meet his gaze, I see the sincerity there. He’s actually curious why I would care that I hurt him. Is it because he wouldn’t care? Or because no one is careful with him? Maybe a combination of both—not that it should matter. Psychoanalyzing my kidnapper shouldn’t be a priority.

“I told you why. I take care of people. It’s what I do.”

“But I’m a murderer…and a kidnapper…among other things. You’ve said so yourself.”

“Yes, you are. And I hate you for that, but I’m not going to let who you are change who I am. Your demons are your own.” I reach around him and grab the empty water bottle from the cup holder. “You need to stay hydrated. I’m going to fill this up.”

I try to walk away, but his hand lashes out, wrapping swiftly around my wrist. “Who said you could go anywhere? You’re my prisoner.”