Keira.
"You're following me." My voice is a mess.
"Oh good, you can still talk," she mutters, sliding under my arm. "I was hoping you'd be less energetic given the whole bleeding-to-death thing."
"You here to finish me off, Red? How kind."
"Shut up before you make the hole bigger."
"I don't think that's how it works." I try to laugh but end up coughing.
Her shoulder fits under mine. The scent of her makes my head swim. She hauls me to the car and floors it. The street vanishes behind us in a smear of lights and rain.
Eventually we end up at a small farmhouse. Damp walls, a single flickering bulb, rain drumming against the windows. It's all bleeding together.
"Take your shirt off," she says, setting down peroxide.
I stare at her. "You could just finish what they started."
"Stop being so dramatic. If I wanted you dead, I'd have let you bleed in the street." She doesn't sound amused, but I think deep down she enjoys this. "Now take it off."
I try to move, but the pain stops me. She leans in, cutting the rest of the shirt away. Her hands are steady as she cleans the bullet wound.
"You're good at this."
"I know." She doesn't look at me, but I can't take my eyes off her.
She pours peroxide on my wound without warning. Fire rips through me. I grip the couch, jaw locked so I don't scream.
"Are you going to give me your real name?"
Her icy blue eyes flick up. "I already told you before. It's Keira."
"That's not your real name."
"Unfortunately, it is."
"Why unfortunately? I like it."
"Good for you," she mutters, gripping my shoulder. "Now bite down."
She shoves a rubber rod in my mouth. The pain tears through me as she digs for the bullet, but I try to focus on something else. Anything…like how her hair curls in soft waves—half curls, half waves. It's always perfect, even after she's been drenched. And her lips, so pouty and pink. I just want to bite them…
The loss of blood is really messing with my head.
When the bullet is out, Keira drops the piece of metal onto the ground.
"Good news and bad news. Bad news first—there's a knife inside your body and I need to remove it."
"What's the good news?"
"You'll live."
A short, broken laugh escapes me. "Impeccable bedside manner."
She rolls her eyes and an almost-smile tugs at her mouth. Her hair falls forward while she works, brushing my chest. Every pass of her fingers leaves heat in its wake.
"This will hurt," she warns, gripping the knife handle.
