Sam sat inside, perched on the edge of the bed while a man in a doctor’s coat secured gauze on his hand. “I believe all the glass is out, though of course if there is more, remove it immediately with a pair of tweezers and apply an antiseptic hex to the wound,” the doctor was saying. “The hexes on the bandages should help everything heal up in a few days, but if you notice any sign of infection, or if anything else seems wrong, don’t hesitate to call on me. You have my card?”
“Sam!” Even though he knew through their bond that Sam was all right, the relief at seeing him upright and moving made Alistair weak in the knees. Ignoring the doctor, he hurried to his witch and pulled him close. Sam stank of smoke and dried blood, and his chubby body trembled in Alistair’s arms.
“How is he?” Wanda asked from the doorway.
“Quite all right. Just some glass shards in his palms and face, which I’ve removed and bandaged.” The doctor smiled reassuringly. “He’s a very lucky young man.”
“Doesn’t feel very lucky,” Alistair said.
“No—the doctor’s right.” Sam pulled back. Soot streaked his pale skin and darkened his auburn hair, and his warm brown eyes looked vulnerable without his cheaters. “Another second or two, and we would have been right on top of the bomb.”
Alistair’s stomach plunged. “So it wasn’t just an accidental explosion.”
“If you’ll excuse me,” the doctor said, and slipped out. No doubt he was an old hand at knowing when to leave a room before he overheard too much.
“No.” Sam swallowed convulsively. “I wasn’t sure at first, but then a man came in…he was holding a gun…”
“And Sam here saved my life,” Sullivan said from the hallway.
Alistair swore silently—he’d let his guard down like a fool. Wanda had already moved further into the room, clearing the way for the gang boss to enter.
Sullivan had cleaned up, smelling of Castile soap and bay rum aftershave. A white plaster with a hex on it covered an injury under one eye, and he moved stiffly, as if more bruises and cuts hid beneath his freshly pressed suit. But beyond that, he looked older than the last time Alistair had clapped eyes on him, the lines around his eyes and mouth more deeply graven.
Sam turned bright red at Sullivan’s praise. “I just threw a piece of metal,” he started to mumble, but Sullivan cut him off.
“You distracted him long enough for Mr. Bellinowski to arrive. Otherwise, he’d have put a bullet in me.” Sullivan stuck out his hand, and Sam uncertainly extended his own. Alistair bristled, but Sullivan only lightly shook Sam’s fingers, avoiding the bandages over his palm. “I owe you a debt.”
Having a gang boss in Sam’s debt sounded good, so Alistair instantly distrusted it. It was just one more strand in the web Sullivan had spun around them.
“I’m sure you’re very busy tonight, Mr. Sullivan,” Wanda said. “We’ll just take Sam and get out of your hair.”
Sullivan met Sam’s eyes. “You’re welcome to stay here tonight, if you want the extra security.”
Was Sullivan implying Alistair couldn’t take care of his own boyfriend? “We’ll be fine,” he said.
“I’m sure you will.” Sullivan didn’t look at him, just patted Sam on one shoulder. “Take tomorrow off. I’ll send you the name of an optician I know, the best in Chicago. He’ll get you some new cheaters in no time. Go see him in the morning—I’ll let him know to expect you.”
“A-all right?” Sam said, sounding bewildered. “Thank you, Mr. Sullivan.”
“Of course, of course,” he replied magnanimously, as though ordering other people to do his bidding at the drop of a hat was nothing. To him, it probably wasn’t. “Be careful out there, hear me? If you see or hear anything suspicious, call right away.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good man.” Sullivan stepped back and finally looked at Alistair and Wanda. “Good to see you, Miss Gatti, Mr. Gatti. I’m sorry I don’t have more time to socialize—why don’t the two of you come to dinner with Sam one night?”
That wasn’t good—it meant Sullivan wanted something from them. But they couldn’t refuse, so Wanda just smiled. “We’d love to, Mr. Sullivan.”
“Good, good. I’ll see you then. Take care of Sam for me in the meantime.”
Once Sullivan was gone, Wanda let out a long breath. “Well, then. Let’s get you home, Sam, before anything else can go wrong.”
“Thank God you’re all right,” Alistair said, much later when Wanda had dropped them off at their house and sped away. Now they were inside, all the doors locked tight, Sam sitting on the closed toilet seat while Alistair wiped away the worst of the soot from his face. “Take off your clothes, and we’ll salvage what we can.”
“Not the most romantic way you’ve ever phrased that,” Sam teased. In truth, he was still shaken by the terrifying blast, the gunman hunting Sullivan. But he didn’t want to give Alistair any reason to worry.
“No one ever said you were with me because of my charm,” Alistair replied. “How are you feeling? Any pain?”
“No.” The hexes on the bandages were good, dulling the pain of his cuts and hopefully speeding along the healing process.
