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“What?” I exclaim. He’s clearly unharmed, but I’m riddled with guilt for forcing Bash to break off the engagement so abruptly.
“I’m fine, Mads. But he got Stieg.”
“Oh my God, is he alright? Where is he? What’s his condition?”
“He needs your help, babe,” he says, glancing at me before his eyes return to the road.
“Of course, where is he? Where are we going?”
“He refuses to go to the hospital, he’s at the house bleeding badly.”
My gut wrenches with more guilt. “Where was he hit? How bad is it?”
“He was shot in the upper chest. I didn’t see an exit wound, but at least it missed his heart.”
“That’s good, but we need to get him to the hospital, Bash, I don’t have the tools I need to help him.”
“It’s ok,” Bash replies. “I have some basic first aid tools at the house and I’ve sent Hector and Ray to gather some more supplies.”
“This is crazy,” I object. “If Stieg is shot, he’s in no condition to decide whether or not he goes to the hospital. Just take him!”
“He’s not going to the hospital and that’s final!” Bash snaps as he turns onto the road toward the house. “He’s at the house, you’re going to help him. It’s the least we can do for him!”
I just stare at him in disbelief. His tone and manner suggest he’s not asking, he’s giving me an order. I start to push back but I remember that we’re in this predicament because I forced his hand regarding Natasha. If I’d been patient and allowed him adequate time to delicately extricate himself from the engagement, maybe none of this would’ve happened. Natasha’s father might not have been so vindictive. Me showing up at the wedding as the new fiancée certainly didn’t help matters.
So much of this is wrong I hardly know where to begin. So, I sit silently as we drive down the road. Mentally, I prepare myself for what I’m about to face and run the procedures I’ll need to stabilize Stieg until I can convince them to take him to the hospital.
We pull into the garage and hurry into the guest suite where they’ve put poor Stieg. He’s laying there in bed and Ben stands guard.
“How’s he doing?” Sebastian asks him.
“No change,” Ben answers. “He’s breathing ok, and the Percocet must have kicked in since he’s not groaning.
“Excuse me, please.” I push past Ben to get to Stieg lying on the bed. The ghastly pallor of his face unsettles me. They’ve removed his shirt and have a green towel pressed to his upper chest on the right.
His eyes are shut but the lines between his brow tell me he’s still experiencing discomfort despite the Percocet.
I shrug out of my coat and toss it to Sebastian. I need to work quickly to stabilize Stieg. “I’ll need to sterilize the wound before I can assess the damage and remove the bullet. I’ll need more towels, can someone boil some water?”
Dmitri and Ben go on full alert and hurry about their business. I go to the ensuite bathroom to thoroughly wash my hands, Bash follows suit using the faucet from the bathtub. When I give him a curious look, he replies. “I’m going to assist you.”
“Do you have some tweezers, alcohol, and peroxide?”
“Yes, I had the guys pick up some at a medical supplies’ outlet. Along with plenty of gauze and bandages,” he says as he scrubs his hands and lower arms as if he scrubbed in for surgery a hundred times before. “I don’t think the Percocet is going to do the job.”
“I’ve got something stronger.”
I glance at him. “Like what?”
“Morphine.”
My brow furrows. “Morphine? You just happen to have morphine sitting around.”
“No, I don’t use it for myself,” he explains as we dry our hands on the bathroom towels. “It was confiscated off an acquaintance in lieu of payment.”
I can’t even form the words to dive deeper. Right now, Stieg is all that matters. I walk over to him and remove the soiled towel from his wound.
“He’s still bleeding,” I say sternly, still angry Bash won’t let me take him to the hospital. “Without the proper equipment—”
