She winces, hand going to her stomach. Panic flashes across her face.
“What—?”
“You’re safe.” I keep my hand on her shoulder, grounding her. “You’re in the clinic. You’ve been out for two days.”
Her breathing picks up. The monitor beeps faster.
“Easy.” My other hand moves to her wrist, fingers finding her pulse. Too fast. “Breathe.”
She does. Shaky. Uneven. But she does.
Her eyes search mine. Still glassy. Still pale. Like all the color’s been drained out of her.
It hurts more than the bullets.
More than the shoulder that’s on fire. More than the chest that feels like it’s caving in.
Because this—seeing her like this—is worse than dying.
“I thought—” Her voice breaks. “I thought you were—”
“I’m alive.” I lean closer, make her look at me. “So are you.”
Tears well up. Spill over. She doesn’t even try to stop them.
My jaw clenches. I’ve seen men bleed out. Watched them beg. Watched them die.
Never bothered me.
But her tears? They gut me.
I reach out and slide a strand of hair from her face. It sticks to her cheek, damp with tears and sweat. My fingers follow, rough against her skin, tracing the line down to her jaw.
She’s shaking. I can feel it.
I use my thumb to catch the tear before it falls, rubbing it away like it offends me for touching her first.
She closes her eyes. More tears slip free. “The gun. I-I pulled the trigger.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes snap open. “Timofey—”
“Dead.”
She stares at me. Breath caught. Waiting for something. Judgment, maybe. Or disgust.
She won’t get either.
“You saved my life,” I say. Not thanking her. Just stating fact.
Her lip trembles. “I killed him.”
“Yes. You did. For me.”
The words land heavily. Final.
She breaks.
