"This will need three stitches."
"Fine."
She turned to prepare her instruments. Needle. Thread. Gauze.
No syringe.
I waited.
She cleaned the wound. Then, she picked up the needle.
"Wait. No anesthetic?"
She looked at me like I'd asked for champagne. "You want local?"
"Usually helps."
"This is France. We do not coddle."
Then she leaned in and started stitching.
The first pierce was sharp and immediate. Pain radiated through my cheek. I kept my face still, breathing slowly through my nose.
She worked methodically, drawing the thread through with small, deliberate movements. Each pull felt like fire dragging across skin.
And she was smiling.
Not obviously. Just the faintest curve at the corner of her mouth.
Sadist.
I focused on the wall behind her, letting the pain become background noise. I'd had worse. Knife wounds stitched in safe houses with vodka. Broken ribs taped up in the field.
This was nothing.
Still.
The pleasure I'd felt for Paris earlier was wearing thin.
Until I thought about the girl in the waiting room.
American. Manhattan. Which made sense—she had that polished, careful look of someone who'd grown up around money and expectations. Put-together without trying too hard.
And beautiful.
Not the loud kind. The kind that didn't announce itself. Soft curves under practical clothes. Blonde hair that caught light. Sad eyes that suggested grief, recent and raw.
But she'd stood up for me, anyway.
That was the part I couldn't stop turning over.
She didn't know me. Had no reason to care. But she'd stepped in without hesitation.
Who does that?
I could've mentioned the fat men myself. Could've demanded the doctor. Could've made the receptionist's life uncomfortable.
But she'd beaten me to it.
