Page 59

Mirage

Mirage wasn’t surprised at Grace’s reaction to Spectre grabbing his arm. It’d been foolish, and he’d gotten what he deserved.

Grace was still glaring down at Spectre from beneath his hood, his body tensed and looking prepared to strike again.

“Grace, I apologize. I didn’t mean to overstep,” Spectre gritted out. “It won’t happen again. Swear it.”

The rest of the team froze on the windy platform as if fearing they could be next if they also did something to piss Grace off. Ballistics certainly didn’t holler out again for the whereabouts of the twenty-five-hundred-dollar rifle.

Mirage touched the center of Grace’s back, digging his fingertips into the reflex points until he felt his muscles relax.

“We weren’t asking, Spectre,” Mirage said from behind the statue in front of him. “We will see you at the debriefing…tomorrow at thirteen hundred.”

On the way past the doctors, they glanced down at Grace’s shredded cargo pants, and Mirage nodded to Dr. Martin.

“Prepare a trauma room for me. I’ll tend to his wounds myself.”

“Yes, sir.”

He was glad they didn’t meet any more resistance.

Mirage guessed the doctors were the only ones on their team who knew how to keep their mouths shut and do what they were told.

Mirage didn’t allow Grace to go to his apartment first.

The open wounds had been exposed to enough bacteria and needed cleaning now.

Grace was reclined on the hospital bed, with one long leg hanging off the side and the injured one stretched out straight.

He was scowling for not being allowed to do what he wanted, and his narrowed eyes and rigid posture were yelling he was fine.

Mirage was sure he was. But their enhancements didn’t make them immune to infection.

The lab was empty, and the staff knew not to interrupt.

He didn’t trust anyone else to touch the one thing in the world he cared about.

He bypassed any protective gear or gloves before he got to work, refusing to allow latex gloves to mute his touch.

He pulled his stool to the edge of the bed. The scent of sweat, antiseptic, and the metallic tang of dried blood mingled in the air.

After tearing away what was left of Grace’s fatigues, Mirage got a better look at the four raised red marks on the top of his thigh, measuring the depth of the lacerated tissue.

The cuts looked exactly like he’d been clawed by a big cat.

“They’re not as bad as they look.” Mirage frowned. “A good washing and some Steri-Strips will be enough for these.”

Mirage scrubbed his hands and forearms, then got to work.

He began with treating the superficial scratches on Grace’s arms, which had already begun to heal. Mirage eyed the wide tear in the middle of Grace’s trench and tore it open, revealing a longer, deeper gash, his flesh pulled apart.

The edges were precise and even, as if he’d been cut by an obsidian blade.

Fuckin’ hell.

Mirage would have to use staples.

Grace’s espresso-colored eyes were on him. Shadows lurked behind them, showing Mirage the turmoil Grace was battling inside.

It was so intense he had to pause for a moment to inhale.

The sight of his partner’s ripped flesh was gut-wrenching. A testament that they weren’t as invincible as they’d been led to believe.

Mirage moaned when he felt Grace’s rough palm along his jaw, caressing his cheek until his breathing evened out.

“I’m okay,” Mirage answered.

It took a while, but neither attempted to break the charged silence as Mirage got back to work.