"I'm fine."
"Liar." I slid off the counter, forcing him to step back. "Shirt off."
"Julia—"
"Quentin." I met his eyes. "You covered me with your body. I heard the bullets hit the table. If any of them went through—"
His jaw tightened but he pulled off his bullet-proof vest, then his shirt.
I sucked in a breath.
A bruise was already blooming across his ribs—deep purple, angry. "Geeze, Quentin."
"It's just a bruise."
"From a bullet?"
"I guess.” He winced as I pressed gently around the edges. "Probably cracked a rib."
"Probably?" My hands were shaking now. Really shaking. "You need an X-ray."
"I need a drink." He caught my hands. "And so do you. Come on."
He led me back through the bedroom into the living room. Modern, comfortable, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city lights. Normally I'd appreciate the view. Tonight, all those windows felt like targets.
Quentin must have seen it on my face because he crossed to the wall and pressed a button. Heavy blackout shades descended with a soft whir.
"Better?"
"Better."
He moved to a bar cart in the corner, pulled out a bottle of whiskey. Poured two generous glasses.
His hands shook so badly the bottle rattled against the rim.
I crossed to him, steadied his hand with mine. "Here."
Together, we poured. Together, we lifted the glasses.
"To survival," he said quietly.
"To not dying horribly in an Italian restaurant."
"Very specific."
"I'm a specific person."
A ghost of a smile. We drank.
The whiskey burned going down, warm and grounding. I took another sip. Then another.
Quentin sank onto the couch like his strings had been cut. I sat beside him—close but not touching. Still processing. Still shaking.
"Three people tried to kill us tonight," I said to the silence.
"Three that we know of. Maybe more outside if Stone and Forrest hadn't been there."
"Margaret was terrified. Did you see her face?"
