Page 110

I watched her reflection, frozen, not wanting to spook her as she reached for the buttons on my shirt.

She hesitated, her hand floating in the air between them as her rich brown eyes met mine in the mirror.

I didn't stop her.

When I didn't move, she pressed further and started working on the buttons of my shirt.

It was the first time she had touched me willingly.

The first time she initiated any kind of contact.

Fitting, I thought darkly, that both of our hands were soaked in blood.

Still, every time her fingers brushed my skin, I savored the contact.

She peeled the shirt from my shoulders.

I clenched my teeth to stifle the yelp ripping up my throat as she pulled the soaked fabric from my wound.

She hissed when she saw the wound, and I closed my eyes, waiting to hear the disgust or the reprimanding tone from her.

I braced myself for even worse.

What if she mocked my pain? What if she said I deserved it?

I had earned the injury by protecting her.

Avenging the life those assholes allowed her father to steal from her.

I could tell her that, but to what end?

The only thing that would've come of that would be to make her aware of a threat that would be taken care of long before she had to face it.

An annoyed wife was far better than a freaked-out one.

"I don't want you to see this. Leave. Now." I tried to keep my voice strong, but the blood loss was making the room spin and I felt cold and tired.

"Where is the first aid kit?" she asked, ignoring my demand. I'd enjoy punishing her for that… later.

I gestured with a nod of my chin, growing more impressed by the second at her calm demeanor. Brows furrowed with determination, head slightly tilted as she focused, and not once did she look away squeamishly.

She ordered me to sit on the edge of the tub.

I had to hold back a grin at her cute, authoritative tone.

I'd play along for now and remind her who I was tomorrow.

Digging into the cabinet, she dragged out the large paramedic bag. In my world, a basic first aid kit with gauze and Band-Aids didn't cut it.

I had everything I needed to avoid hospitals—drugs, suture kits, and proper surgical supplies.

Anything that required IV medications or blood, I'd have to call Mikhail to come patch me up.

This shouldn't need a field medic, just a steady hand with a needle and thread.

She bit her lip as she washed her hands while surveying the supplies and the wound. "I suppose I'd be wasting my breath telling you to go to a hospital."

I raised an eyebrow. "What do you think?"