The engine roars to life and I'm pulling out of the parking lot before anyone inside can think about calling the police or getting a license plate number. The bag of stolen medication sits on the passenger seat, and my hands are steady on the wheel as I drive. I feel like shit—morally and physically.
What the fuck is Sabine Hart doing to me, anyway?
The drive back to her house is short but feels like an eternity. This fever is making me feel like I'm hallucinating or zoning out every two seconds. When I finally park the truck and turn it off, a few blocks from her house, I know I don't have the strength to walk that far right now. I keep the car running and dry swallow a few pills, then nod off.
If they got my plate, they'll probably find me passed out here in the front seat and never connect it to Sabine at all. God knows, that's the last thing she needs is to add armed robbery to the things she could be suspected of.
If they didn't get my plate, I'll be just fine until I'm out of gas, at which point I hope she's home and comes to check on me.
Because I'm sicker than fuck, and it's all her fault.
6
SABINE
The house is quiet when I unlock the door and step inside. My bag drops to the floor near the door and I kick off my boots. It's been a long day, and my mind has suffered the strain of too much stress. I want a drink and dinner and to unwind, but I can't have any of that because I have a man in my house. I have to play nurse or mother and pray he's not like Bryan in any way.
I hear movement in the bathroom and start to move that way, and when I round the corner I find Jace sitting on the closed toilet lid with his jeans pushed down around his knees and fresh gauze scattered across the tile floor. He's trying to clean the wound himself with clumsy hands and uncoordinated movements. I can see immediately just looking at him that he's still feverish, maybe worse than this morning. The bandage I applied is soaked through with blood and sickly yellow puss, and when he reaches for the antiseptic bottle his hand shakes enough that half the liquid spills onto the floor instead of the gauze.
"Give me that…" The command comes out automatically. I'm exhausted and running on no sleep, and years of giving andtaking orders have given me an edge. "You're making a mess and doing more harm than good."
He looks up at me in a daze, and I think he'll argue, but his shoulders drop slightly and he sets the bottle on the counter. He's on something too, some sort of pain meds, I'm assuming.
"Where'd you get all this?" My hands gesture at the supplies scattered across the bathroom, the bottles of antibiotics and pain medication that definitely didn't come from my first aid kit. "These aren't over-the-counter."
"I robbed a pharmacy, okay?" His irritation is noted. I guess that probably comes from the pain, or the high. Either one could do it. "Couldn't exactly walk in and ask for the shit, could I?"
The answer shouldn't surprise me but it does anyway, and the frustration that's been building since I left for work this morning finally finds an outlet as I snap, "You robbed a pharmacy."
"Yes." His eyes meet mine, and there's a challenge in his gaze, daring me to make an issue out of what he already knows was necessary. Drawing more attention to what we're doing is a bad idea. But I suppose letting him go septic and die is a worse idea.
"With a gun, I assume." My hands are already reaching for the antiseptic and fresh gauze. I'll still bitch at him, but there's no sense in wasting the perfectly good supplies. "In broad daylight, in a neighborhood where people pay attention to this sort of thing."
"It was handled—and don’t worry, no one saw my truck." The defensive edge in his tone makes it clear he doesn't appreciate the interrogation, and I have to resist the urge to pour the entire bottle of antiseptic directly onto his wound just to make him shut up.
"We can't draw attention to ourselves if we're going to work together. Every move you make that puts us on anyone's radar makes this harder, and I don't have the luxury of cleaning up your messes while trying to keep my own career from imploding."
"I needed antibiotics." He winces when I push a little too hard, and I don't regret it. "What the fuck did you want me to do, Staff Sergeant?" I bristle at how he emphasizes my rank like it's a curse word. "Sit here and hope the infection cleared itself while you were at work pretending everything's normal?"
That's clearly meant as an insult, and something flares in my chest because I've spent two years being dismissed and undermined by men who thought my authority was negotiable. "I would've had you wait until I got home so we could figure it out together instead of going rogue and robbing the first pharmacy you found."
Throwing the gauze and gritting my teeth, I gesture wildly with my hands. "Like call a fucking army medic friend of mine. I have other ways to get shit without stealing. You need to listen to me."
"I don't take orders from you." He shifts on the toilet seat and winces at the movement. "I'm not in your chain of command and this isn't a military operation. You want my help finishing your vendetta against Bryan, that's fine. But don't mistake cooperation for subordination."
The words are designed to put me in my place and remind me that he's not one of my soldiers and I can't boss him around the way I'm used to doing. The problem is that I'm too tired and too frustrated to care about his ego right now, and the bottle of antiseptic in my hand provides a perfect opportunity to end this argument before it escalates further.
My hand tips the bottle and pours the liquid directly onto his open wound without warning, and the reaction is immediate and satisfying. He jerks back with a shout that echoes off the bathroom tiles, his hand flying to his thigh and his face contorting with pain that cuts through whatever response he was about to give me.
"Feel better?" My voice stays calm while I set the bottle aside and reach for clean gauze. "Or do you need another reminder that antagonizing the person who's keeping you alive is a bad tactical decision?"
He glares at me with his hand still pressed against his leg and his breathing turns harsh. But he doesn't say anything. This is a standoff, and neither of us is willing to back down until finally, he moves his hand and lets me continue working. The fight goes out of his posture and he just sits there while I clean the wound properly and apply fresh bandages, his jaw clenched and his eyes fixed on the wall above my head. For not being ex-military, he sure acts like a trained soldier at times.
That makes me wonder what sort of life he's had and how he was raised. When I finish taping the gauze in place, I sit back on my heels and meet his eyes. "Why did you agree to help me?"
He licks his lips with a glower on his face, then rakes his teeth over his bottom lip before eying me. "You had a gun to my fucking head. And I wasn't sure I had a choice."
"And you came back after robbing that pharmacy… You could've gone anywhere." My hands gather the used supplies and dispose of them in the trash. "You could've just killed me in my sleep, planted a bomb or something, and finished your list…"
