I hate that I'm here with Anton when I'm feeling so many things. I hate that I need his help. I hate that I'm bleeding in his car.
I also hate that I don't hate it enough to want to be anywhere else. Shit.
A sharp sting pulses through my left foot, forcing me to stop my self-pity. I look down and I see blood beneath my foot on the floor mat.
I bring my ankle closer to me and twist it harder to get a better look at the cut when Anton glances down.
"You're bleeding."
"I'm fine. It's just a cut, probably from broken glass."
"Fee." He tries to lean toward me while keeping one eye on the road, craning his neck to see my foot. "How deep is it?"
The car swerves slightly as his attention splits between my injury and the traffic ahead.
"I might need stitches deep, but it's okay. Do you have a napkin or something? Just so I don't bleed all over your car?"
"The car means nothing, Fee. You do. You're bleeding, and I can't stop to help you properly."
The concern in Anton's voice threatens to disarm the anger simmering in me. But I won't let it. He glances between me and the road, as if I might disappear if he looks away too long.
Anton reaches behind his seat with his right arm, stretching back while keeping his left hand on the wheel. The movement pulls his black suit jacket tight across his chest, fabric straining against those shoulders that should mean nothing to me now.
I hear a zipper, then rustling as he digs through what sounds like a medical kit.
Of course he has a medical kit. Of course Anton Baev comes prepared for every scenario involving his precious cargo. He doesn't leave anything to chance, especially when it comes to protecting valuable assets.
That's all I am. Cargo. An obligation he inherited when Sage married into his family.
"Where are we going?"
"Safehouse about ten minutes from here." He places gauze and tape on the center console. "Secure location where I can assess your injury and figure out what happened."
There's that professional tone—cool, controlled, methodical. He's not worried about me; he's worried about his assignment. Maks' cousin-in-law. The woman Sage asked him to protect.
I have ten minutes to remember that Anton Baev is just doing his job.
I grab a couple of gauze packets from the center console, ripping them open with my teeth. The plastic wrapper crinkles as I tear it away, leaving the packaging scattered beside me.
The coral fabric of my dress spreads across my lap as I cross my left leg over my right, positioning my injured foot where I can reach it properly. The flowing material creates a makeshift barrier between my wound and the leather seats.
The cut runs along the outer edge of my left foot, that curved space between my pinky toe and heel where the skin is thin and vulnerable. It's deeper and longer than I initially thought. Blood drips out from the slice, bright red against the coral fabric of my dress.
I press the gauze firmly against the wound, applying steady pressure to join the separated edges. The bleeding slows almost immediately in response to the direct contact. It stings, but it's manageable.
Anton's eyes flick down to my makeshift first aid setup, his gaze lingering on the growing crimson stain spreading across my dress.
"As soon as we're secure, I'll take care of you."
"You don't have to."
"Yes, I do."
"It's okay. I'll wrap it, and my family's medic can do whatever needs to be done."
"Fee, I have to."
His hands grip the steering wheel tighter, knuckles white against the black leather. The speedometer climbs higher as he takes another corner, the Camaro's engine growling with increased urgency.
