Page 3 of Killaney Blood

I can't deny the blood pouring over my eye. Head wounds always bleed like a bitch. And while I could walk out right now, something keeps me rooted to the spot. Curiosity. Rage. Maybe the need to understand.

"You remember me?" I step forward.

She meets my gaze. Doesn't blink. "I tend to recall people who pull guns on me."

"Just make it quick," I say, sitting. I wish I had my gun now. Usually I leave it in my car for these fights. Not worth the hassle if there's a raid. Now I regret it.

"I don't half-ass things," she says, grabbing some supplies. "You die, I don't get paid. It'll take as long as it takes."

She presses gauze to my wound, the pressure making me wince despite myself. Her touch is firm, like I'm just another body to fix.

"Where was that attitude the night I brought you my cousin?" I ask, watching her face.

Her eyes meet mine for just a second. "Hold this," she orders, guiding my hand to the gauze.

My teeth grind together.

I brought my cousin Joyce to her so she could save his life. He got stabbed, was bleeding out. I was covered in it, panicked, desperate.

And she, this cold-blooded bitch, refused.

Said she wasn't authorized. Said if she helped, she'd die.

I grab her wrist instead. Her pulse jumps beneath my fingers, but her expression doesn't change. "Answer me."

"You want to rehash ancient history or you want me to help you?" She doesn't try to pull away. "Because I can walk out that door right now."

"Do it," I dare her. "Walk away. See how far you get."

Her jaw tightens. "Three years ago I had a gun to my head. Tonight, I don't."

"No," I agree. "Tonight you're alone, and you have me."

A flicker of something crosses her face.

"So what's it going to be?" she asks. "Kill me or let me fix you?"

I release her wrist. "Fix me. Then we'll see about the rest."

She takes the gauze from my hand and tosses it into the trash. Then she soaks a fresh piece in antiseptic and cleans around the cut.

"You need stitches," she says.

"Then stitch me up."

She prepares everything and then holds up a needle.

"Stay still."

Each pierce of the needle sends a sharp pain through my brow, but I don't flinch.

"So," I say conversationally, as if she's not currently sewing my flesh back together, "no more Albanians? They get tired of you letting their enemies die?"

Her hands remain steady, but I catch the tightening at the corners of her mouth. "I'm freelance now."

"That's one word for it."

She ties off a stitch with precise movements. "You're going to have a scar."