“I’m Elise,” she said from behind him.
“Rook.” The man tried to smile at Elise, who set the water down beside Rook and hovered close.
“That’s a bullet wound.” Her voice was calm, but her eyes tracked every movement, sharp as ever.
Blake didn’t glance up, though he felt her scrutiny. “Sure as hell is.” He pressed sterile gauze down, firm enough to make Rook hiss.
“Careful, Blake. You’ll make me cry in front of the lady,” Rook muttered.
“You’ll live. Maybe.” Blake leaned closer, cleaned around the wound, working fast but precise. His hands didn’t shake. They never had, not with blood, not with this. Too many nights back at the compound, his mother teaching him triage while his father drilled Guardians until dawn.
Elise crouched opposite him, her gaze flicking from the instruments to Rook’s pinched face. “How did this happen?”
The pause was brief, but Blake felt it. He met Rook’s eyes over the man’s shoulder, the unspoken conversation sharp and wordless.Don’t. Not now.
Rook broke first, lips twisting into something resembling a smile. “Wrong place, wrong time. Some drunk with bad aim. But nothing that I can’t deal with.”
“Never try to stitch anything again, Rook. You suck at it.”
“Hey, I think I did a good job. It stopped bleeding … mostly, and I made it all the way to the store in Budapest before it ripped open again. Although I’m kind of woozy.”
“When was the last time you ate anything?”
“I dunno. What’s the date?”
“The fourteenth,” Elise replied.
Rook grunted. “I think I should probably eat something. Been about a week.”
“You didn’t eat on the plane?” she asked.
“Ah, no.” Rook shook his head slowly. “No can do. Nope. Not happening.”
“Why?”
“Because he didn’t know who made it or what was in it,” Blake said as he started to stitch up the wound.
“What does that matter?”
“Ahh …” Rook decided against answering.
“He’s got a phobia,” Blake said, still working.
“What? I’ve never heard of that.”
Blake glanced up at her for a second, “Really? He’s the third person I’ve known who had issues with food.”
Elise handed him the scissors when he asked for them. “You mean you have an eating disorder? Like Bulimia?
Rook snorted. “Kind of.”
Blake tied another stitch, making him grunt. “You’re welcome.”
Rook exhaled hard, sweat dripping down his temple. “You always sew this tight? Thought you were patching me, not upholstering a couch.”
“Quit whining. You’ll thank me when you don’t bleed out all over my kitchen.” Blake tied off the last knot and trimmed it clean.
Elise straightened, wiping her hands on a towel. Her brow was furrowed, suspicion simmering under the surface, but she didn’t push. Not yet, but Blake knew she would.
