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She halted at the sight of the wound.
“You’re okay with blood, right?” he asked casually, reaching for the first-aid kit that had been left on the bedside table next to him.
“Sure,” she said. “Yeah. I’ve just never… seen this much of it.”
He smiled. She knew it was to calm her. It helped, but she didn’t feel good that he was the one taking care of her. She walked up to the side of the bed, placing the glass on the bedside table when he proved too busy rummaging through the first-aid kit to accept it from her.
“What can I do?” she asked.
“Press down on the wound.” He said it like he was asking her to cube a carrot. She stared at him, then turned her eyes on the wound in question. His thigh was thick with muscle, not too hairy, and tanned. It was also very, very bloody. She wasn’t sure what was making her pause more: the thought of touching him or this messy wound being the first time she got to do it.
“Okay,” she said slowly.
She didn’t have much of a choice, did she? She couldn’t very well let him try and bind it by himself. So, she climbed over him and kneeled on the bed, reaching out both hands, hovering them above the wound that was so dark red it was almost black. It made it appear more like a cartoon bullet wound than a real one. Like a black dot drawn on a starkly crimson page. It made it easier to concentrate if she imagined this was all it was. Pretend. A painted image.
She moved her hands, pinching her fingers gently around the opening, having to close her eyes and breathe to keep from gagging at the warm wetness of it.
She was surprised at herself. She hadn’t thought she’d be this squeamish. It was a little frustrating if she was honest. Especially since her brother was a trained paramedic. Why could he handle it with such apparent ease, while she couldn’t even stay present in the moment for fear of tossing up delicious salmon as an unnecessary addition to an already bleak visual?
Dmitri huffed a soft laugh and the sound had her open her eyes to glare at him.
“It’s not funny,” she said.
“It’s a little funny,” he said.
“Why? Because I’m a Kumarinova?”
“Well, yes,” he admonished. “But also, because you want to take over after your father,” he said, eyes on the wound as he placed a tiny piece of surgical tape over the opening, their fingers grazing in some sort of maddening way. He glanced at her when she didn’t respond. “Don’t you?” he prompted, eyes on hers.
She felt her heart sink under the scrutiny. This was too personal, even with her fingers pinching his thigh to keep a wound closed. But she had a feeling that it was the kind of make-or-break moment she’d been looking for herself, only she’d hoped she’d be the one to find the right question to ask him. He was probing this deep to work out her intentions. She could tell. She knew she needed to do the same thing. She wasn’t going to repeat her mistake with Gregor, wasn’t going to let attraction run away with her again. Only, here she was—the one with her head on the proverbial chopping block. If she closed off from Dmitri and didn’t admit how right he was, then the risk was that he wouldn’t trust her moving forward. That he would be stuck wondered what this was really all about. That he’d begin to tell himself she might be involved.
And then where would they be?
So, she drew a soft breath, and said, “Yes. I do.”
“Haven’t exactly been an ideal evening for you, huh?” he asked.
She had to laugh, appreciating the fact that he seemed set on making her feel better.
“Guess not,” she admitted, removing her pinch as he’d secured three pieces of tape to do the job for her.
Her fingers were sticky with his blood.
“Well, I’d let you rule your side of the family.” His words took her completely off guard, moving her gaze from the blood he was cleaning off his skin with a wet wipe to his face, which was restive, calm. “It’d actually not be a bad thing,” he added, raising those green eyes to hers, a soft question there of whether she might agree with him. “Joining our families.”
“And you’d let me have equal power to you?” she asked, unable to keep the skepticism out of her tone.
“Why not?” he asked.
“Why not?” she parroted. “Because that’s not how things are done, are they?”
“What things?”
She gave him a look to quit pretending to be stupid.
“All the things,” she said.
He gave her a smile that had heat rolling out from the center of her chest, sending goosebumps over her arms and neck. He was fucking beautiful and challenging and fearless. He was smart and interesting and patient. And he had the most charming way of looking at her as though she was someone to be treasured. Gaze lingering on hers. Waiting for her to reply. Waiting for her to accept or reject his proposal to do things differently.
