Emphatic refusal.
“You have an infection. You lost a lot of blood. This is how we stop it from killing you.” I reached for his arm again. “Unless you’d prefer sepsis? Because I can arrange that.”
His mouth tightened. But he extended his right arm, wrist up, fingers curled into a loose fist.
I wrapped my fingers around his wrist to steady it. His pulse jumped under my touch. Mine answered, blood rushing hot through my veins.
Professional. This is professional. Except my hands weren’t quite steady as I wished.
The IV slid back in smoothly. His bicep flexed, the only sign of discomfort.
I secured it with tape, hung the new bag. “Better.”
A sound outside, quiet, testing.
Xavier went rigid.
Every muscle coiled, already trying to sit up.
Then his body shifted. Despite barely being able to stay upright. Still positioning himself to protect me even though he could barely move.
Something in my chest tightened. Dangerous territory. Don’t go there.
Another sound. Key in lock. Testing, turning, stopping when it hit the chain.
Then a cough. Wet, phlegmy. Distinctly Bernard.
Relief flooded through me. Just the landlord. Not police.
“Bernard.” I called toward the entrance. “Give me a second.”
Xavier’s gaze snapped to mine. Question clear: Who?
“Landlord.” I kept my voice low. “Pain in my ass. Exasperating. But harmless.”
Mostly harmless. If you ignored his tendency to barge in unannounced and his complete inability to fix anything.
Xavier didn’t relax. If anything, tensed more. Still positioned defensively. Still ready to fight despite having nothing to fight with.
“Stay.” Firm. Pointing at the bed. “Don’t move. I’ll handle this.”
I grabbed a blanket, threw it over him. Covering the bandages, the IV, everything in one swift motion. He looked like he might be sleeping. If you ignored the tension, the predatory alertness.
Cracked the entrance. Kept my body blocking the view inside.
Bernard stood in the hallway, space heater in his arms. Sixty-something, perpetually confused, with the kind of mustache that belonged in a bad French film.
“Mademoiselle Bolton.” His accent was thick, genuine. He pronounced my name ‘Bowl-tone’ despite three years of corrections. “The heat. I bring it. Finally, yes?”
“Finally.” I kept the gap mostly closed. “Thanks, Bernard. Just leave it...”
He tried to peer past me. “You are well? You look, comment dit-on, terrible?”
“Gee, thanks. I’m fine. Just tired. Night shift.”
Which I hadn’t worked in two days but Bernard didn’t know that.
“Ah, yes, the sick peoples. Very exhausting.” He hefted the space heater. “I bring it in, oui?”
