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“What is it?”
“Bourbon,” he answers before taking a swig straight from the bottle. “You’ll need it.”
“I’m not old enough yet,” I say for some stupid reason.
Valentino freezes, then slowly sets the bottle down. “How old are you, Katya?” he asks, his voice deeper than before.
“Twenty.”
Something like relief spreads over his face, though he schools his features quickly. Weird.
“Close enough,” he states, nodding to the mug in my hand.
“Not comforting words coming from the man who’s about to give me stitches,” I grumble. I swear I see the barest spark of amusement in his eyes, but it’s gone before I can be sure.
I hold my breath and take the shot, frowning as the liquid burns its way down my throat and into my stomach.
“Good. Now lie back and lift your shirt.” I balk at him, but he rolls his eyes. “Don’t be weird about it. Just lift the hem enough to show me the wound.”
I do as he says, resting my back against the cool tabletop and inching my shirt up. The cut is only a few inches below my bra line, and I hesitate slightly before taking the whole damn shirt off. Didn’t think the first time someone saw me in my bra would be like this, but hey. For girls like me who come from families like mine, it’s not the worst way for it to happen.
“Jesus,” Valentino hisses, sitting down on a nearby chair and scooting it closer. He leans forward on the table, hovering his fingers above the three-inch cut. “What happened? Who did this to you?” he asks again.
“Does it matter?”
Valentino frowns at me but takes the hint. He gets to work disinfecting the wound, which isn’t so bad. At least this pain is productive. When he presses on the wound and pushes my skin back together, however, I howl in pain.
“It’s okay,” he soothes.
“Easy for you to say,” I grit out.
“It’s not as bad as I thought. You’ll just need some butterfly bandages and antibiotic cream.”
“Told you I had it handled.”
“You didn’t let me finish,” he scolds, returning his attention to my side. “It’s not as bad as I thought, but left alone any longer, you’d risk infection. And a nasty scar.”
“Wouldn’t be the first one, doc.”
He pauses, taking a second to let my response sink in. I don’t know why I told him that. Thankfully, Valentino doesn’t say anything.
“I’m not a doctor,” he informs me as he takes out several small butterfly bandages and lines them up on the table. “But I learned how to take care of injuries at a young age. I had a lot of practice over the years on myself and my mom.”
His confession is as heartbreaking as it is surprising. Valentino looks shocked and slightly embarrassed at what he just said.
Without thinking, I rest my hand over his, squeezing gently. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, meaning every word.
I understand more than he knows, and I hate he had to go through that. No one deserves to be treated that way, and I can’t imagine being the kid in that situation, having to take care of your parent.
“I didn’t mean to tell you that,” he says, sounding flustered.
“It’s not like my family is much better. I mean, you’ve met some of them, I assume.”
This earns me a snort, which I’m considering a win. I wonder if Valentino ever smiles, or furthermore if he ever laughs. I have the sudden need to hear it. I bet it’s contagious.
“Tell me what happened,” he commands more than asks. “I told you something about me, it’s only fair you do the same.”
I glare at him right as he pinches my cut and secures it with the first butterfly bandage. I hiss and pound the table with my fist but manage not to whimper.
