"Do it."
He pours the antiseptic over the wound.
The pain is white-hot blinding. My back arches off the wall. I bite my tongue to keep from screaming.
Alessandro works fast. He packs the wound with gauze. He tapes it down tight. His hands are covered in my blood.
"It’s not deep," he says, his voice tight. "It hit the oblique muscle, maybe grazed a rib. But you've lost a lot of blood."
He sits back on his heels. He looks at his hands. He looks at me.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he asks.
"Because you would have stopped."
"Yes. I would have stopped to keep you from bleeding out on the upholstery."
"We had to get clear."
"You are an idiot," he says. But there is no heat in it. He reaches out and touches my face. His thumb brushes my cheekbone. His hand is warm. "You are a catastrophic idiot."
I look at him.
He is covered in dirt and blood—mine, the dead man’s. His hair is a mess. His eyes are dark bruises in his pale face.
He has never looked more real.
"Alessandro," I whisper.
"Don't talk. Conserve your energy."
"The container," I say.
He freezes. His hand stills on my face.
"I know," I say.
He stares at me. "You know what?"
"I know what you were doing. I saw the vest."
He pulls his hand back. He looks away, staring at the dusty floor. A flush creeps up his neck, visible even in the dim light.
"I needed..." He stops. He swallows hard. "The adrenaline. I couldn't stop it."
"I know."
I reach out. My hand is heavy, clumsy. I grab his wrist.
"Look at me."
He turns his head. His eyes meet mine. There is shame there, but also defiance.
"I wanted to help you," I say. "When I opened that door... I wanted to finish it for you."
His breath hitches. The pupils of his eyes dilate, swallowing the iris.
"You were busy," he whispers.
