His to protect

Stitches and secrets

CHAPTER TWO:

Getting him up the stairs almost killed us both.

He was tall, easily six-two, and built like someone who spent more time breaking bones than sitting behind a desk. By the time we hit the first landing, his breathing was labored, by the second, I was sweating through my scrubs, by the third, I was pretty sure my spine was going to snap.

"Almost there," I gasped.

He didn't answer, his arm was heavy across my shoulders, his weight pressing into my side, I could feel heat radiating off him. Fever, probably.

"Come on." I half-dragged him down the hallway, my apartment was at the end, 3C. The door with the crooked number and the peeling paint I kept meaning to fix.

I fumbled with my keys, shouldered the door open, and half-carried, half-pushed him inside. He collapsed on my couch with a grunt, head tipped back, eyes closed.

His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths.

"Don't die on my couch," I said, kicking the door shut behind us. "I can't afford a new one."

No response. His face was pale under the lamplight, gray, almost. The kind of paleness that meant things were very, very bad.

I dropped my bag, ran to the bathroom. Grabbed my first aid kit from under the sink. It was pathetic; band-aids, gauze, rubbing alcohol, a thermometer that hadn't worked in months, nothing close to what I needed for this, but I had a suture kit I'd stolen from the hospital for practice…borrowed, I told myself, I'd borrowed it, and a bottle of vodka I'd been saving for the inevitable breakdown that came with finals.

Close enough.

I knelt beside the couch, scissors in hand. "I need to cut your shirt."

His eyes opened, sharp, focused. Despite everything, despite the blood loss and the fever, those eyes were alert. Dangerous.

"No."

"It's soaked in blood."

"No."

"Fine. Bleed out in Armani, see if I care." I sat back, crossed my arms.

He glared at me, then, slowly, he sat up and started unbuttoning his shirt. His hands shook, he made it halfway before he stopped, jaw tight with pain.

"Let me." I reached for the buttons.

He caught my wrist again, gentler this time. "Who are you?"

"Someone who's regretting every decision that led to this moment." I pulled my hand free, finished unbuttoning his shirt. "And you're Adrian Volkov, apparently. The guy in the car said your name."

"You shouldn't know that."

"Too late now."

I pushed the shirt off his shoulders, the tattoos were worse than I thought. They covered his chest, his ribs, his arms. A cathedral sprawling across his back, saints and demons intertwined, the kind you didn't get at a strip mall parlor, the kind you earned through blood and loyalty.

Three stab wounds, one shallow across his ribs, two deep in his side, the deep ones were still bleeding, slow but steady.

"This is going to hurt," I said, reaching for the vodka.

"I've had worse."

I poured vodka over the wounds, he didn't flinch, didn't make a sound, just watched me with those cold, dark eyes like he was cataloging every detail, every movement, filing it away for later.

I threaded the needle, my hands were steady, steadier than they should've been.

Three years of nursing school, and I'd never stitched anyone outside a simulation lab. Now here I was, sewing up a man who might be a criminal while his enemies circled outside.

"You do this often?" he asked.

Stitch up random men in my apartment?

First time. You?"

"Get stabbed?" His mouth twitched.

Almost a smile. "More than I'd like."

I started stitching. The needle slid through his skin with a resistance that made my stomach turned but I didn't stop, couldn't stop. One stitch… Two… Three.

"You're calm," he said.

"I'm in shock. Give me an hour, I'll fall apart."

"What's your name?"

I glanced up. His face was still pale, but his eyes were sharp.

"Does it matter?"

"No."

"Then why ask?"

He didn't answer, just watched me work.

His breathing had evened out.

I tied off the last stitch on the first wound, moved to the second. This one had nicked something, muscle, maybe.

"You need real medical attention," I said.

"This is beyond my skill level."

"You're doing fine."

"I'm a student, I'm not qualified for this."

"You're all I have."

Something in his voice made me look up, vulnerability, maybe, or just exhaustion. Either way, it made him seem almost human.

I finished the second wound, wrapped his ribs in gauze. My hands were covered in blood.

"Done," I said, sitting back. "You'll need antibiotics, real ones, not whatever expired stuff I have in my medicine cabinet and rest and probably a priest."

I don't believe

in God."

"Yeah. You look the type."

I stood, walked to the sink, washed my hands, the water ran red, then pink, then clear. When I looked back, he was watching me.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"Don't thank me yet. You might still die."

"If I do, it won't be tonight."

I dried my hands with a towel. I turned to face him. "The man in the car. Mikhail. Is he going to come back?"

Adrian's expression went cold. The vulnerability I'd glimpsed a moment ago vanished like it had never existed.

"Yes."

"When?"

"Soon."

My phone buzzed, I jumped, grabbed it from the counter, an unknown number, a text message.

Nice work, nurse. He'll bleed out by morning anyway. Save us the trouble.

I stared at the screen, at the words that shouldn't have been possible. No one had my number, no one except...

"They know who I am," I whispered.

Adrian pushed himself up from the couch, swayed, steadied himself against the armrest.

"Show me."

I handed him the phone, watched his face as he read, I watched the muscle in his jaw tighten, I watched his fingers curl around the phone until I thought he might crush it.

"Pack a bag," he said.

"What?"

"Pack A Bag." He looked at me. "You're not safe here anymore."