His eyes slide to mine, and he nods silently, helping me pull the sweatshirt off of him.
I frown at the blood soaked gray tee underneath. “You don’t ownanycolor?” I say without thinking, and his gaze meets mine, sharing a look while my question goes unanswered. My attention snaps to the blood gushing out of his arm. “Holy shit! You actually did get shot!” I don’t know what I expected, but the sight of the real live gunshot wound takes me aback, and I feel the blood rush out of my face, leaving my head a little dizzy.
“It’s just a graze.”
“A graze? You have aholein your arm!”
“It went clean through,” Koen says, shifting his weight on my mattress. “I just need to sleep it off.”
My mouth falls open. “You want tosleep offa gunshot wound? Mister‘you didn’t clean your woundsproperly’ wants tosleepoffhis own?” I shake my head at him, and the corner of his mouth ticks up, amused.
“You need to go the hospital.”
He stiffens and his eyes go hard. “No hospital.”
“But…” My eyes drop to theliteralgun shot wound in his arm.
“No hospital,” he growls, and I can’t help but roll my eyes.
“Stay here. I’ll be right back.” I feel his eyes track me all the way out of the bedroom, and again when I return, bringing with me the first aid kit from the bathroom and some warm, damp towels.
Settling back down on the bed, I start to wipe away the blood. I’m no med student but I’ve watched enough television to know we have to clean it or it could get infected. They usually end up having to stitch the wound closed too, but I shake away the thought. One thing at a time.
“Can you take off your shirt?”
He nods, reaching back over his shoulder with his good arm, and ripping off the gray t-shirt—saturated in blood—with one hand, andholy hell,I forget how to breathe. His muscles are larger, thicker since the last time I saw them, water coats his skin, the wet sheen highlighting the deep contours of his body. My fingers twitch to roam over his defined abdomen, to feel the ripples beneath my touch.
He’s covered in dark ink. Only black, shaded with gray. There’s hardly any skin visible on his right arm, the ink spreading over his chest. My heart stutters at the familiar hawk he has flying over his heart, but it stops entirely at the small red rose just above it.
A single splash of color amongst nothing but dark ink.
He still has it.
My eyes pull to his. He catches me looking, and a soft smile appears on his lips. And for a moment, he’s not the hardened mafia boss controlling me for his own gain, or the violent and dangerous father of my child I need to run from. For a moment, he’s justKoen. Hard eyes soften when they look at me, all his defenses; his barbed wire and guns have been ordered to stand down. Right here is the guy who took me to a midnight firework show, dared me to get my first tattoo, and who made me come for the first time.
Rí.
His throat clears and I’m snapped from my train of thought, seeing the blood and remembering I’m supposed to be doing something. I move slowly, lifting one of the damp towels to start cleaning away some of the blood.
Koen sitsverystill.
“What happened?” I ask softly, wondering if he’ll tell me.
“Ambush.” My eyes fly to his. “Bratva—Russians,” he adds for my benefit. I continue to wipe away more blood, swapping out the soaked towel for a fresh one. “It was a trap. They madeus think they had our sister.” He rolls his shoulder back in annoyance. “They didn’t. Should’ve seen it coming.” He shakes his head.
I bite the inside of my cheek. What happened—his injury—is a harsh reminder of how dangerous Koen’s world is.
“I know they do it in all the movies, but I don’t think I’m going to be able to stitch this for you.” I make a face, barely keeping it together as it is.
Koen releases a chuckle. “It’ll be fine. Do you have any large bandages or medical tape, maybe?’
I remember I still have some of that medical wrap Lily bought me for my back. “Yes, hold on two seconds for me. I dart out of the room, grabbing the medical wrap, then going back to the bedroom and taking some fresh gauze out of the first aid kit.
Carefully, I press the gauze to each side of the wound, packing it in tight with the wrap as I wind it around Koen’s bicep. Every so often, my fingertips graze his skin and I feel a tingle in my spine.
Once I have the wound wrapped to my liking, I stop, cutting off the excess wrap and freezing. Shit! I have nothing to hold it in place. With my free hand, I feel through the first aid kit but I don’t find anything I can use.
“Uhm. Can you hold this for a second?”
