CHAPTER 65
“God damn it, wait.” Ryle’s voice was a harsh exhalation, escaping his parted, dry lips.
The agonizing finality of the stitching had left him depleted, fighting a sudden wave of nausea and shock. He immediately reached for the vodka bottle again, his good hand blindly seeking the cold glass on the bedside table. His grip was fiercely tight around the bottle's neck, using the physical pressure to anchor himself.
He raised the high-proof alcohol and took another long, deliberate drink, the burn intended to cauterize the raw pain that was now throbbing relentlessly beneath the fresh bandages. He needed the instant, numbing effect of the liquor to pull himself back from the brink of total collapse.
Without the benefit of local anesthesia—which would have slowed her down and req
