"Anonymous donation," Tommy says with a straight face that suggests he's about as good at lying as I am at making sensible romantic choices.
"I can't accept—"
"You can and you will," Zane interrupts. "Call it payment for saving Ranger last week."
"I don't charge for—"
"Then call it a gift."
"I don't accept gifts from—"
"From what? Enemies? Strangers? Men who've seen you naked?"
The Viper's eyes go wide. "You've seen her—"
"Medical emergency," I say quickly, possibly too quickly. "Hypothermia. It was professional."
Zane's laugh is low and dangerous. "Nothing about us is professional."
My phone buzzes again.
Bad Decision:You're blushing.
“I'm flushed from exertion,” I mutter under my breath.
Bad Decision:Liar. You're thinking about the van. About my hands. About what's going to happen when you're done saving this worthless life.
Nothing's going to happen.
Bad Decision:Everything's going to happen.
I finish the last suture, my hands somehow steady despite my internal organs staging what feels like a coup. The Viper will live, unfortunately. He'll heal, probably continue being terrible, definitely tell everyone that the Ghost Clinic nurse has some Iron Talons connection.
"You're done," I tell him. "Don't remove the sutures for two weeks. Keep it clean. Try not to get stabbed again."
"What do I owe you?"
"Nothing. I don't charge for stupidity. I'd be rich if I did."
He stumbles out, Tommy helping him with a grip that's more restraint than assistance. And then we're alone. Zane and me and the blood-stained exam table and enough sexual tension to require its own hazmat classification.
"You shouldn't be here," I say, peeling off nitrile gloves that are more red than purple.
"Neither should you."
"This is literally my van."
"Treating Vipers. Alone. No backup."
"I've been doing this for years."
"Not with me watching."
"No," I agree. "That's new."
He steps closer. I should step back. I don't.
"That turned you on," he says, not a question. "Having me watch."
