But he’s already pulling out his phone, knuckles pale, breath ragged with effort.
He unlocks it and taps the screen with as much energy as he can muster, leaving smears of blood.
“Are you seriously texting Bronx right now? I can contact him from the hospital.”
He doesn’t answer. He just finishes the message and hits send.
Then his fingers loosen and the phone slips from his hand. He slumps back into the seat, sweat beading at his temples and blood everywhere.
“Message delivered,” he rasps. “Now stop looking like you’re about to cry, wife.”
“I’m not crying,” I snap, blinkingfast. “But I swear to God, Kingston, if you pass out, I’m going to slap you back awake.”
He winks. Weak, but unmistakable. “That’s a side of you I’d love to see.”
I hitch up my dress, climb over the center console, straddle his lap, and tear open the buttons of his shirt, blood coating my fingers.
“Hmmm, baby… You’re enjoying this,” he says with a half smirk, still half-strangled with pain. “You gonna take advantage of a dying man?”
“Shut up,” I growl. “I’m keeping you alive.”
His head drops back, pulse slowing, but there’s heat in his eyes even now and I get the impression he wants to shove his tongue down my throat.
I press my hands over the wound in his shoulder to seal it, hoping the pressure will slow the bleeding. He flinches but lets me push down hard.
His eyes lock on mine, dark and focused, even through the pain.
“Stay down next time,” he murmurs, voice low. “You don’t take bullets for me, Livvie.”
Blood is everywhere. Hot and slick beneath my hands as it soaks through Kingston’s shirt and coats my fingers like the devil’s ink.
It’s seeping faster now, pulsing through the hole with every beat of his heart.
The color drains from his face and his lashes flutter.
“Don’t you fucking close your eyes on me, Kingston.”
One of his arms hangs useless at his side, limp from the hit. The other presses weakly over mine, fingers curling at the edge of my wrist like he’s still tryingto reassureme.
“You’re losing too much,” I say, biting the words out like they’ll anchor me. “I need something—anything. A cloth, a belt, a—shit this won’t stop.”
I yank his jacket off, bundle it, and press it hard into the wound.
“You’re okay, Kingston,” I whisper. “I’ll stay with you, okay?”
He huffs a ragged breath. “I won’t die from a shit shot in the shoulder. If a Viacava falls, it’s from something fatal. Not a stupid flesh wound.”
“Then maybe try bleeding a little less dramatically,” I snap, blinking fast as I press harder. “Because you’re ruining your shirt and my fucking heart rate.”
“Thought you hated me, wife,” he rasps, his voice rougher than I’ve ever heard it. “Seems like married life isn’t the worst after all, huh?”
I narrow my eyes at him, refusing to let the panic show.
“I do hate you,” I mutter. “But the sex is pretty good… So I might downgrade it to a strong dislike until you piss me off again.”
Even through the blood loss, his smirk twitches alive for a second, crooked and smug.
“Good to know,” he murmurs, voice fading slightly. “If I do happen to die, I’ll go out flattered.”
