"You're bleeding everywhere. That's the opposite of fine." My voice is sharp with panic. Something inside me cares very much that this man got hurt. He got shot defending me, protecting me from men who wanted to kill me, and the thought of him dying because of that makes me feel like I'm going to shatter into a thousand pieces.
"I'm driving us back," I announce, steering him toward the passenger side of the car stubbornly. "You're in no condition to drive anywhere, so get in."
"Vivika—"
"Get in the car, Lev." I open the door and scowl at him, pointing at the seat as he lifts an eyebrow at me like he's surprised to see this side of me.
When he finally caves in and climbs into the car, I see him wince and know it's not just a graze. I help him buckle up and shut the door, then climb into the driver's seat, but this time, I position the seat and mirrors so I can see what I’m doing.
The drive back takes forever, or maybe it just feels that way because I keep glancing over at Lev every few seconds to make sure he's still conscious. His face has gone pale and a thin sheen of sweat coats his forehead even though it's chilly and we have no windows left.
"Are you alright?" I ask for what must be the tenth time. "You look like you're about to pass out."
"I'm fine." He grunts, and I can hear the strain beneath his tone, the effort it's taking him to stay upright and alert and conscious. "Just drive, Vivika. I've had worse than this."
I don't believe him for a second but I keep driving, pushing the damaged car as fast as I dare. He coaxes me through one turn after another because I have no clue how to get to his townhouse, and every time he mutters something, it grows quieter.
By the time I pull into his driveway, Lev's eyes are half-closed and his breathing has gone shallow. It scares me, and I can't help but wonder if I should be taking him to a hospital, not home. But I throw the car into park and rush around to his side, yanking open the door and ducking under his arm to support his weight as he climbs out.
"Come on," I murmur, guiding him toward the front door. "Just a little farther. You can make it."
He leans on me heavily as we stumble through the entrance and into the living room, and I lower him onto the couch as gently as I can manage, given the difference in our sizes. His shirt is completely soaked through now. It's too much blood to be just a scratch, and I feel completely inadequate. I'm not a nurse. Hell, I don't even have any first aid training.
"I need to see it," I say, reaching for the buttons of his shirt. "I need to see how bad it is."
He doesn't protest as I strip the ruined fabric from his body, revealing the wound beneath. The bullet tore through the side of his torso just above his hip, carving a furrow through skin and muscle that's still seeping blood. It missed any major vessels—I can tell that much from the steady flow rather than spurting,but it looks painful and raw and he's lost more blood than I'm comfortable with.
"Where's your first aid kit?" I demand, pressing my hand firmly against the wound to slow the bleeding while my other hand reaches for his face, tilting it so I can see his eyes. "Tell me where it is and I'll get what I need to fix this."
He looks up at me from beneath heavy lids, and there's a warmth in his eyes as they meet mine. It communicates his gratitude and how weak he is. It says a million things I don’t think he's even capable of articulating in words, and it's enough for me to know what he's thinking. And I feel the same way.
"Bathroom cabinet," he manages. "Under the sink."
I'm already moving before he finishes speaking, determined to patch up the man who just killed four people to keep me alive.
17
LEV
The burn of whiskey is a welcome distraction from the fire spreading through my side as Vivika presses a cloth soaked in antiseptic against my wound. I hiss through my teeth and grip the arm of the couch, watching her work with steady hands that belie the fear I can still see lingering in her eyes.
"Sorry," she mumbles, her brow furrowed in concentration as she examines the torn flesh above my hip. "I know it hurts."
"Keep going." I take another long pull from the bottle she handed me, letting the alcohol dull the edges of the pain. "You're doing fine."
She's found gauze and medical tape in the first aid kit, along with a small suture kit that she eyes with obvious trepidation before setting it aside. The bullet carved a furrow through skin and muscle but didn't lodge inside, which means she can clean and bandage it without having to dig around for fragments. Small mercies.
"Is the whiskey a good idea?" I ask, watching her tear open a packet of sterile gauze. "If I pass out, you could just run. Walk right out the front door and disappear before I wake up."
Vivika pauses, hands hovering over my wound, and meets my eyes with compassion. "I saw those women at the bus station, Lev. I believe you now." She shakes her head slowly and returns her attention to my side, pressing fresh gauze against the cleaned wound. "I want to help them. I have no intention of leaving."
Her words loosen my chest and I sip more of the whiskey. Unlike men in my world whose word I could never bank on fully—there's too much underhanded backstabbing—I fully believe what she says. She's given me no reason to doubt her whatsoever. She's been transparent in everything she's said and done thus far.
I watch her work in silence for a while, admiring the way she bites her lower lip as she tapes the bandage in place. She's beautiful when she's so focused and determined, so different from the trembling woman who almost shot me in the face an hour ago. That fear seems to have mostly melted away again, just as previous bouts of fear have, and it's like the only thing she's thinking of is caring for me.
When she's finished, I reach out and catch her hand before she can pull away, bringing her fingers to my lips and pressing a kiss against her knuckles. Her breath catches in her throat, and I hold her gaze as I lower her hand but keep it clasped in mine.
"Thank you," I say quietly, "for patching me up."
