“Fourth,” he manages through clenched teeth. “Twice in the Army. Once last month.”
I meet his gaze, the gauze pressed to the deep gash in his shoulder. “Lastmonth?”
Ronan nods to his right side where a fresh, reddish scar mars the skin above his belt. “Through and through.”
Running my fingers over the wound, I kick myself when he cringes. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“I was lucky. The whole job went sideways at the end,” he mutters. “Are you done with the antiseptic already? Feels like it’s eatin’ through my shoulder.”
Shit. Pay attention. You need him, remember?
The stained gauze goes into the trash, and I turn him gently to get a better look at the wound in the light. “Five, maybe six stitches. I can do it, but at the hospital, you’d have anesthetic.” Dammit. I don’t want to be the cause of more of Ronan’s pain, even though going to the hospital is risky in its own right.
“My boss has a doctor on retainer who doesn’t ask questions. But he’d sure as shit tell Dax, and then I’d have to explain why I haven’t brought you in yet. I can handle the pain.” He sets his jaw, staring at the towel rack like it holds the answers to all the secrets of the universe.
“All right, Mr. Broody and Stubborn. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Snapping on sterile gloves, I rip open the suture and pick up the needle. With my free hand, I hold the gash closed. As the tip pierces his skin, Ronan stifles a grunt, and his eyes squeeze shut. “Breathe. First one’s almost done.”
Tying off the stitch as gently as possible, I cut the suture thread and start on the second. By the time I’m done with all five and secure a bandage over the wound, sweat glistens on his brow, and his abs are trembling.
“Ronan? Look at me.” I pull off one of the blue gloves and cup his cheek. “You lived. And the stitches are even straight. Let me see your hand now, okay?”
“Gotta sit down.” With a groan, he sinks onto the closed toilet lid. Placing his hand over the sink, palm up, he adds, “Don’t eventhinkabout practicin’ your sewin’ skills again.”
“Wimp. With that attitude, I should let you bleed all over your nice new towels.” I’m not gentle as I hold his fingers still and pour a healthy dose of antiseptic over the cut.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Warn a man next time!” Ronan tries to pull away, but I hold fast. “I’m not coddin’ you, Zephyr. I’ve been knocked on the head, kicked, punched, shot, and almost killed in the past two hours.”
He’s right. I soften my voice and lightly stroke the uninjured part of his palm. “Being an ass? It’s my default. You spend enough time on your own and you,” I shrug, “forget how to people.”
With a sigh, he relaxes. “Get on with it, then. I’ll make us some tea when you’re done.”
“No. When I’m done, you’re going to clean up—keeping those stitches dry—and I’ll make tea. If the cup you gave me earlier is any indication, we like our tea the same way. Strong, not sweet. A generous splash of milk.”
“Don’t forget the whiskey.” He grimaces as I irrigate the wound. “Check for any small pieces of glass, will you? Please?”
“I am.” Turning his hand back and forth under the lights, I’m satisfied. “It’s a clean cut. Butterfly bandages and a tight wrap should do it.”
“Thank fuck.” The words escape on a harsh whisper, and I’m amazed he’s still upright.
“Who was it?” Carefully pressing one of the little bandages over the edge of the gash, I fight to keep my voice steady. “Who came after you? What did he look like?”
“Big guy. Six-foot-four, close to three hundred pounds. Mean son-of-a-bitch. He cursed in French but didn’t have much of an accent when he was demandin’ I tell him where you were.”
I swallow hard, then try for one round of slow breaths to calm my racing heart. “Theodore Hallswell. I’m fucked, Ronan. For Theo to find me…? I only trust one person in this world, and if Dante sold me out—”
“Dante?” His head snaps up, and his face no longer carries the weight of his exhaustion and pain. “Dante Lambert?”
The third butterfly bandage falls to the floor. Retreating until my back hits the wall, I tense, ready to run. “How do you know that name?”
Ronan offers me his uninjured hand. “Zephyr. Wait.”
“Answer me!” My stomach ties itself into a knot. How far could I get wearing Ronan’s bathrobe? A few blocks? It’s after 2:00 a.m. The streets should be empty, but that means I’ll stand out even more.
“He’s my contact at the General Intelligence and Security Service in Antwerp. He sent me photos of the crime scene in São Paulo, a couple of shots of you—none recent—and gave me the name of your next victim.”
“I don’thavea next victim! I’ve never killed anyone in my life and I’m not going to start now.” Focusing on Ronan’s hand—the skin of his palm, the clear lines, strong fingers—I add the last two bandages, then wrap the wound with gauze, followed by a light covering of flexi-tape. “You’re good.”
Shit. What now? If he’s working with Dante, I can’t trust him.
