I cut away his thermal shirt with scissors, revealing a chest that makes my breath catch despite the circumstances. He's built like someone who spends serious time in the gym, all defined muscle and broad shoulders. But it's the scars that make my hands pause.
There are so many of them.
A long, thin line across his ribs that looks like a knife wound. A puckered circle on his abdomen that could only be an old bullet hole. Smaller scars scattered across his torso like a map of violence. This man has been hurt before, badly and often.
Then there are the tattoos.
A bracelet design circles his left wrist, intricate patterns that seem almost tribal. I don't know what they mean, but I know they mean something. These aren't drunken mistakes or youthful rebellion. These are deliberate, significant.
No rainbows. No kitty cats. Just ink that screamsDanger.
I force myself to focus on the bullet wound. The pliers feel clumsy in my shaking hands as I probe the entry point, searching for the slug. Blood wells up, hot and slick, and I have to wipe it away with a towel before I can see what I'm doing.
The man's face contorts in pain, and I freeze, terrified he'll wake up and grab me. But he just groans again, his head rolling to the side.
"Stay asleep," I beg. "Please stay asleep."
I find the bullet lodged against bone, and my stomach turns. Getting it out is going to hurt him, possibly damage the surrounding tissue more. But leaving it in will definitely kill him.
I take another swig of vodka and get to work.
It takes twenty minutes that feel like hours. My back aches from hunching over him, and sweat drips down my face despite the cold cabin. When the bullet finally comes free with a wet, sucking sound, I nearly sob with relief.
The slug is deformed, mushroomed from impact. I drop it into a bowl and immediately start packing the wound with clean gauze, applying pressure to stop the bleeding. My mother's voice echoes in my head, calm and professional even in crisis. "Pressure first. Always pressure first."
Once the bleeding slows, I clean the wound thoroughly with alcohol, ignoring how the man's body jerks at the sting. Then comes the stitching. My hands are steadier now, muscle memory taking over as I make small, careful sutures the way Mom taught me. The stitches aren't pretty, but they're functional.
I bandage him up and sit back, exhausted. Dawn is breaking outside, gray light filtering through the windows. The storm has finally stopped.
The man sleeps on, his breathing deep and even. I check his pulse and find it strong. He'll live, probably. Unless infectionsets in. Unless he has internal injuries I can't see. Unless a dozen other things go wrong.
I should have left him in the snow.
But I didn't, and now he's here, bleeding on my couch, and I have no idea what to do next.
I force myself to catalog the rest of him, looking for clues about who he is. His clothes are expensive. The thermal layers are high-end brands, and his boots are Italian leather, barely broken in.
His watch catches my eye. It's still strapped to his wrist, a heavy piece of metal and crystal that must have cost a fortune. I don't recognize the brand, but I recognize quality when I see it.
This man has money. Serious money.
I remember the gun I took off him before dragging him inside. It's hidden in my bedroom closet now, a sleek black pistol that felt perfectly balanced in my hand. I don't know much about firearms beyond my rifle, but even I could tell that weapon is top-of-the-line.
Everything about him screams dangerous and expensive.
I spend the rest of the morning cleaning up the blood, burning the bloody towels in the wood stove, and checking on my patient every twenty minutes. He doesn't wake, just sleeps the deep sleep of the injured and exhausted.
By afternoon, I'm exhausted myself. I make tea and sit in the armchair across from the couch, watching him breathe. His face is striking, even pale and drawn with pain. Strong jaw, straight nose, lips that would probably be sensual if they weren'tpressed tight with discomfort. His hair is dark and longer than I expected, falling across his forehead.
He's handsome. Dangerously so.
I'm contemplating making dinner when his eyes finally open.
They're gold. Actual gold, like honey in sunlight, and they fix on me with an intensity that makes my heart stutter.
His eyes narrow into dangerous slits and he grabs my arm. "Predatel!"
I shriek and pull back. Luckily, he's weak from blood loss and can't keep his grip on me. Traitor. He'd called me traitor. I don't speak Russian very well, just enough to get by. If it isn't spoken too quickly. I recognize the word "predatel", though.
