My hands won't stop shaking.
I've killed men with these hands. Broken bones, pulled triggers, signed death warrants without a tremor. But right now, as I press the antiseptic-soaked gauze against Serafina's torn flesh, my fingers shake like I'm some green kid who's never seen blood before.
"Hold still," I mutter, though she hasn't moved. She's sitting on the edge of the hotel bed, her white shirt discarded, wearing only a black bra and those fitted pants that drive me insane. The bullet grazed her upper arm—just a flesh wound, but it's still bleeding, and the sight of her blood on my hands makes something primal and terrifying claw up my throat.
"I'm fine," she says, her voice steady. Too steady. Like she's trying to convince herself as much as me.
I don't look at her face. Can't. If I
