"Sit still," I command, my voice shaking only slightly.
Stavros is sitting on the edge of his massive king-sized bed, a dark island in a room that feels more like a command center than a place to sleep. His tuxedo shirt is unbuttoned, hanging open to reveal a chest heaving with lingering adrenaline.
"It’s a scratch, Alina," he grunts, trying to push my hand away. "Leave it. We need to debrief with your father."
"It’s a gash," I correct, stepping between his spread knees. I force his hand down to his side. "And you are not going anywhere until I stop the bleeding. You look like a horror movie."
He glares at me, his jaw set in a stubborn line, but he stops fighting. He lets me dampen a cotton pad with antiseptic from the first aid kit I found in his bathroom.
"This is going to sting,"
