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Usually, the house was scattered by soldiers, but it was the quietest it had ever been.
That alone was a bad sign.
Fuck.
“I’ll be back with Lucca shortly,” Arlo announced as we stepped inside Lucca’s grand study, and he looked over Viktor. “Get the kit and patch him up.”
“Patch him up?” The room stilled with Davina’s tone.
Arlo’s lips curled, and when he took a step forward, so did I.
“Arlo,” I warned.
He didn't acknowledge me, instead he stared at Davina with punishing eyes. I stepped between his gaze, bringing his eyes to mine. He shook his head with a sneer and walked away.
Davina’s hands curled tightly to her sides, and they didn’t relax until the door clicked closed.
“You need a doctor!”
“It’s a scratch,” I said, dropping onto the leather cushion.
“This can’t be real.” She pushed her hands over her face and paced.
I watched her as she muttered to herself, and I almost laughed at how flustered she was.
“Here.” Viktor brought my attention to him and the medical kit in his hands. I hadn’t noticed he had left. “You know I can’t sew you.”
“Yeah.” I did. Viktor couldn’t stand to even see me get a paper cut.
“Wait?” Davina turned to face us. Her blood-stained shirt covered half of her thighs, and I relished the sight of how sick and sexy she looked with wild eyes, crazy hair, and an untamed tongue. “Then who the fuck is going to do it?” Damn, and now she was cursing.
“Me?” I responded.
“I’ll be outside,” Viktor announced, making a quick exit.
Davina let out a breath, dropping her head back before returning her gaze to me.
“Have you ever done this before?” She nodded toward my wound and kit.
“Yeah, just not on myself,” I replied, and her lips twisted.
“We hid so much from each other.”
Yes, we did.
“Come here,” I said, but she hesitated her first step, and I closed my eyes at the pain I felt from that small movement. “Are you really okay?”
Her eyes began to water.
Ugo.
“No. But not in the way you believe,” she rasped.
Davina made her way back to me, but wouldn’t meet my eyes. She busied herself with the medical kit, grabbing cleaning supplies for the wound. Her hand reached for my shirt, but I stopped her hands.
“Kroshka.”
“Don’t.”
