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He’d signed his death certificate the first time he’d touched her.
The first time he’d touched what was mine.
I shook my head.
I tended to the wound on her back, closed it with a couple of steri strips, then focused on the oozing wound on her arm. This one was deeper, not caused by a cane or a whip. It looked cauterized and slightly infected.
“What happened here?”
I tapped on her red skin next to the gaping wound.
She bowed her head and looked sideways. The silky strands of her hair shifted. “Bullet.”
I went rigid.
“Bullet?” Did someone use her as target practice? What the fuck?
She nodded. “I tried to disarm one of them, but I did it wrong.” She chuckled and shook her head. “I couldn’t even get it right even though my life depended on it.” She sighed. “So, the bullet grazed my arm.”
I raised a single eyebrow. The way she said it—the self-deprecating tone in her voice.
“Do not ever talk about yourself that way,” I growled.
She stiffened.
Fuck.
Coming on too strong. Tone it down, idiot.
“Disarming someone safely is something you need to train a lot for, to get it right under stress.”
She nodded.
“You need stitches.”
She looked down at the wound, bending her long neck like a beautiful mare.
The wound was an angry red, gaping, still oozing blood.
Her inhale sounded shaky.
“I promise it won’t hurt too much.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “Can’t you just take me to a hospital?”
There it was.
“Haven’t I made it clear before? If you leave this room, you’re dead.”
She inhaled.
“But what if you took me? I wouldn’t try to escape. I promise.”
I chuckled. She didn’t understand, thought I was the only threat.
She thought I was the one deciding on her life.
And maybe it was better that way.
