Zane grits her teeth, her jaw so tight I could trace every muscle there. “I knew we could trust her.”
I frown at her. “What?”
“They fucking shot her,” Zane whispers. Tears well in her eyes, glittering under the streetlights. She wipes them away furiously before they can fall. “I thought… I mean, up until then, I thought, maybe…”
“She was betraying us to him.”
She nods, her face contorted with anguish.
“Don’t feel guilty,” I say, placing my hand on her thigh. “Honestly, fucked up as it is, I did too.”
She nods again, more vigorously, but it’s clear she’s beating herself up.
I look up, frowning as she turns on to the highway. “Where are you going? The building is in the opposite direction.”
“The hospital.”
“What? Why? Are you OK?” A blaze of fear goes through me—did I miss her getting hit? Was I too rough getting her safely into the car?
But she gives me a pulled, horrified expression. “Nik. Your arm.”
“My…” My brain and body, pumped to bursting with adrenaline, have kept me from noticing the warm wetness spreading beneath my left sleeve. As soon as I realize I’ve been shot, the pain slams into me like a freight train. I bite back a gasp, clenching my hand over my arm. The pain is enough to make every muscle in my body goes suddenly, violently taut. “Fuck. I didn’t even realize.”
“You need a doctor.”
“No.”
She shoots me an incredulous look.
“No doctors,” I say, gritting my teeth. “We can’t risk it. Cops.”
She says nothing, just stares grimly ahead.
“I’m fine,” I say, sliding my hand into her hair, gently massaging the back of her neck. “Let’s go back and recoup, OK? I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.”
Zane doesn’t argue. She simply looks onward, driving with hands clenched so tight they’re white-knuckled on the steering wheel. Her silence is more terrifying than anything she could have said.
14
Zane
“I’ve never done this before.”
Nik nods, pulling the cap off his whiskey bottle and down a few smooth draughts. “Go on.”
I’m cold with fear and disgust, but I have to be strong right now. So I bite back my nausea, and gently plunge the hooked needle into Nik’s arm. He’s lucky—the bullet went straight through. It’s probably on the floor of the car in a pile of glass. But still, he’s lost a lot of blood, and the wound is wide, still bleeding even after being iced, cleaned, and held above his heart.
Nik bangs a fist on the table in his little warehouse apartment. I try to move more quickly. The deft motor skills required remind me of painting, or sketching. Precise but ginger, almost requiring more confidence than skill. Mouth dry as cotton, I stitch both holes within an hour. Nik grips the table for a long time, until the whiskey kicks in or his pain threshold is simply overwhelmed. I clean the wounds again and bind them.
“How does it feel?” I sit back, finally letting my hands tremble freely.
“Heavy and stiff,” he admits, running a hand through his curls. “I’ve never been shot before. Can you believe that?” He chuckles, and despite myself, I smile slightly. “Thank you. For doing that.”
“A wife’s duty.” I feel the smile slip from my face. I busy myself cleaning up, but I can feel Nik’s eyes on me as I move around the apartment. “Well. What’s the plan now?”
He doesn’t say anything for a while. I rinse my tools in the sink, refusing to look back. Because I know what he’s going to say. Well, I can guess. Either he’s going to want to abandon all of this and run away, leaving my father to his fate and the mafia to come after us for the rest of our lives.
Or… no. I can think of the or. I can’t bear it.
