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Tony pulls out a knife and cuts through the front of Paul’s top, around the sleeves and the neck.

Then he lifts him—Paul cries out in pain—while I yank the shirt from underneath.

I toss it on the ground, the fabric landing with a wet, bloody slop .

I reach up and rip off my red wig as well, throwing it next to the shirt.

I undo the pins securing the braids around my skull, letting them drop.

That’s better .

I take a deep breath, already feeling lighter and more clearheaded. I resume holding pressure on Paul’s bare abdomen while Tony goes to the window.

“Stay awake, Paul,” I order. “Keep your eyes open.”

“Okay,” he answers, but his eyes stay closed.

“Paul. Look at me. Open.”

He sighs but forces his lids up.

“I love you,” I tell him, trying to hold his gaze. “You are going to keep your beautiful eyes open and stare at me until Matthew gets here to help you. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he whispers. His eyes are dazed, but I see him try. “Love you too, doll.”

We lapse into silence. Every now and then, I call out Paul’s name or press his stomach a little harder to startle him awake.

“Kat.” Tony turns from his perch at the window. “I see them.”

Abe and Matthew rush into the room seconds later. Abe stumbles and yanks out a chair from a neighboring table. He collapses into it, panting and exhausted.

“Kat?” Matthew looks at me, frightened. “What’s going on?” His eyes widen as he takes in the sight of me standing over Paul, my bloodstained gloves pressing into his stomach.

“Matthew, I need your help.” I scrunch my face against the tears. “I’m so sorry, but I need you.”

He walks over. There’s a bulky bag strapped over his shoulder. He drops it to the ground and reaches to move my hands. “Let me see.”

I step back. No longer able to stand Paul’s blood on my hands, I peel away the gloves, tossing them to the floor beside the red wig.

Matthew’s eyes follow their flight. He sees the wig, then looks at me again, at the incongruous pairing of my bodice and jodhpurs.

He looks at Paul on the table. Paul, whose wolf tattoo is visible, climbing over his neck and shoulder.

Then to the shirtless Tony across the room, paw tracks inked across his side and ribs.

It’s all micromovements—Matthew’s flickering gaze—but I see him putting two and two together, the way I’ve always feared he would. His eyes flash to mine, and I know. With Matthew, I’ve been dancing too close, far too close. Matthew is the sun, and I’m about to get burned.

Exhaustion hits, hard and sudden. I collapse into a chair beside Paul. I take his right hand in mine and when I do, Matthew’s eyes latch onto the final piece of damning evidence, zeroing in on our matching tattoos—the king and queen of diamonds.

“Oh my god…” he whispers.

“Matt, this is Paul,” I whisper back. “I am asking you, asking you with everything I have, to save him.”

“Anytime would be good, doc,” Paul grunts from the table.

Matthew shakes his head in disbelief. “What happened? Kat, we were together a few hours ago. What the hell happened? ”

“He…he got shot. Twice. On his right side.”

Matthew takes a deep breath and lifts Tony’s blood-soaked shirt. He looks for a few seconds, then bends to check Paul’s side.

“Shit,” he hisses. He drops the shirt back down and squeezes his eyes tight, thinking.

Abe skulks over as Matthew opens his eyes.

“Did you notice any holes in his back?” Matt asks.

“No,” I respond. “No, it’s only on the front.”

“That means the bullets are still inside him. They didn’t go through.”

“Can you fix it?” I’m breathless. Desperate.

“I’m a physician, Kat. Not a surgeon.”

“Is that a no?”

“I mean, I can try to dig the bullets out, but it’s not going to be pretty. ”

Paul lifts his head. “I never…cared much…about being pretty,” he manages. “Alive is…far more important.”

“It could get infected.” Matthew looks around the dirty tavern. “Easily.”

“Just do your best.” Paul drops his head. “And try not to kill me, even though you probably want to.”

“I’m not going to kill you,” Matthew answers, reaching to open his bag. “But those bullets might. Especially that one.” He points to the upper hole.

“Why that one?” I ask.

“Because it’s damn close to his liver.”

“What if we leave them in there?” Tony asks. “The bullets. And you just close him up?”

Matthew shakes his head. “Then it will definitely get infected, and he’ll be dead in a week.”

Paul lets out a small chuckle, wincing. “So I’m either dead tonight or dead in a week? You’re a bundle of joy, doc.”

“Paul, just…just clam up for a minute,” I tell him.

“Okay, doll.”

Matthew digs through his bag, pulling out supplies one by one.

“If we can help,” I say, “just ask.”

“Oh, you’re going to help. I’ll need it. Get up, Kat.”

I spring to my feet, and he kicks my chair aside, dragging a nearby table over. He starts assembling supplies across the surface. He tosses me an alcohol-soaked cotton pad.

“Clean his arm. Over his biceps.”

I take the wipe and dutifully scrub Paul’s arm. I have no idea how thoroughly I need to do it, so I just keep swiping. Matthew does the same on Paul’s stomach, cleaning the area around the two holes by pouring a harsh, ethanol-smelling solution directly over it.

“Motherfucker.” Paul graces us with his new favorite word .

Matthew doesn’t apologize, just keeps moving. He snaps open a small case filled with drug vials. He draws something up with a tiny needle, flicking the glass syringe twice.

“What’s that?” I bite my lip.

“It’s phenobarbital—a tranquilizer and hypnotic.

It’ll help with the pain and, hopefully, some of the memories, because trust me, he won’t want to remember what’s about to happen.

” He looks at Paul. “I’m giving you a dose big enough to take down a fucking horse, but I’m probably going to start digging before it hits.

It’s going to hurt like a real motherfucker. ”

Paul smiles slightly at Matthew’s use of his word.

“You might pass out,” Matthew adds.

“Just do it,” Paul grits through tight teeth. “Kat? If you want to tell me you love me one more time, sounds like now’s the last chance.”

“I love you,” I tell him. If it bothers Matthew—and I’m sure it does—he doesn’t show it.

“Love you too,” Paul murmurs, eyes falling shut.

“All right. Stick.” Matthew plunges the needle into Paul’s biceps without fanfare, emptying the drug out.

Paul’s face doesn’t even register the prick.

“It’ll get better in about five or ten minutes.

” Matthew pulls on a pair of white gloves and picks up a scalpel, tweezers, and gauze.

“Kat, put on a pair of gloves, then don’t touch anything else in the room—they’re sterile.

Keep them by your face, but don’t cough or breathe on them.

And when you’re done, don’t throw out the packaging.

Drop it over his chest for me. Fully open, like a napkin. ”

I do as I’m told, trying my best to follow his rapid instructions.

“Abe, get up here and hold his head and shoulders. And you”—he jerks his head at Tony—“get his feet.”

When everyone is in position, the entire room takes a collective inhale .

“All right. Paul?” Matthew says. “You’re going to feel me touching you. Light at first, and then…bad.”

“Got it.” Paul braces himself, taking a deep breath as Matthew begins.

I knew it would be bad—Matthew just said so—but even still, I’m unprepared for just how bad it really is.

Matthew cuts in with the scalpel at the lower bullet hole first, enlarging the area.

Paul does okay with that part; he tenses and groans, but he manages.

When Matt goes deeper with a smaller knife, that’s when it really gets rough.

Paul starts shouting and kicking. Tony blankets himself over his legs, and Abe does the same on Paul’s arms and shoulders.

“Kat, roll up some gauze from the table. Lengthwise. Four pieces,” Matthew says, not looking away from Paul’s stomach.

“Done.”

“Good, now stick it in his mouth.”

“Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. Give him something to bite down on.”

“Paul, open your mouth,” I say, but he’s well beyond listening. I wait for his next scream, then shove the gauze roll in, right between his teeth.

“Good. Now change your gloves,” Matthew directs.

Moments later, Paul’s fight starts to die down. His eyes gradually drift shut.

“Is it the medicine?” Tony asks, hopeful.

“Maybe,” Matthew mutters. “Or he passed out. Probably both.”

It’s quiet while he works. He frequently asks me for gauze; Paul is bleeding again.

“I see the first bullet,” Matthew eventually says. “I think I can get it.”

A minute later, the metal bullet drops to the table, atop the bloody gauze.

Matthew stands and cracks his neck.

“You…you did it. You got it!” I’m shocked .

“The first one, yes. The second is going to be harder.” He shoves some fresh gauze into the oozing first hole before turning his attention to the second.

The process begins anew. Cutting in with the scalpel to enlarge the hole, then slowly working his way deeper with smaller tools as he searches for the bullet.

He’s right, it takes longer this time, and he’s more cautious with his digging.

He curses under his breath, then stands to stretch his neck and back again.

“This one’s a tricky bastard,” he mumbles before he goes back to digging, using a tiny scalpel this time. He makes a few more cautious, exploratory cuts.

An indeterminable number of heartbeats later, Matt asks me to hand him tweezers. I hold my breath as he works, jiggling and concentrating. Eventually, he pulls back and drops the second bullet on the pile.

“Mother. Fucker.” He steps away from the table and wipes his face, exhaling loudly.

“Did you…did you do it?”

He nods. “I have to close him up, but the bullets are out. I can’t believe it. He’s got a lucky horseshoe up his ass.”

Abe chokes out a relieved laugh while Matthew dumps more antiseptic over the bullet holes, an entire bottle. Then he picks up the sutures.

I’m more relaxed now, relaxed enough to notice the details, the steady finesse behind Matthew’s movement.

How he weaves the needle in and out. How he ties off threads with a complicated series of twisting knots.

Over and over, working deep to superficial.

I watch as the holes slowly knit together, layer by layer. It’s like magic.

No, not magic. Matthew.

He sighs mightily when he cuts the final thread. He smothers the wounds with ointment and dresses them. At long last, he rips off his gloves and falls into a nearby chair. Hands trembling, exhausted. His eyes flick to mine. “It’s done.”

I look at Paul, somehow sleeping quietly and peacefully through it all. Completely unaware Matthew DaMolin has hopefully-possibly-probably saved his goddamn life.