He nods once. “Just get it done.”
My hands hover over the wound. I can’t move while the gun is still pointed at my face.
“Okay,” I say, holding my hands up a little. “I’m really hoping you don’t shoot me in the face while I do this.” I pause. “This is going to sound bad, but I need to put my fingers in you. In the wound, I mean. For the bullet.”
He says nothing, just keeps staring.
“And I really don’t want to die today, okay? I haven’t even done anything with my life yet. I’m a vet, and I don’t even have pets. I don’t own a plant. I haven’t gone anywhere. I’ve never even been to the top of the Empire State Building, and I’ve lived in this city my whole life.” I gawk because he still hasn’t moved the gun out of my face. “I don’t know why I said any of that. I just don’t want you to shoot me.”
His arm lowers, and the gun drops to his side while he stares at the ceiling, breathing slow. “Just stop fucking talking. As long as you don’t give me a reason to shoot you, I won’t.”
Swallowing, I move toward the wound with my gloved hands, fingers hovering for a second before I work on slowing the bleeding with pressure, then press them gently inside. I feel around, trying not to go too deep, trying not to panic. His fists clench beside him, white-knuckled, as I search. I can feel him trying not to react to the pain.
I feel it—hard, small, lodged just deep enough that I might actually be able to grab it.
“Yes, I can get it.”
I grin without thinking. Holy shit, I might actually be able to do this. His eyes flick to mine, then drop to my mouth for a split second.
“Just take it out before I bleed to death. Fuck, would’ve been faster if I did it myself.”
“Maybe do it yourself then,” I mutter, rolling my eyes.
I reach for the forceps, press them into the wound, and start working the bullet free. His breathing turns heavier, and he grabs at the fabric of his pants while I try not to look at his face. I’ve done this on dogs, and the principle is the same even if everything else about this is completely wrong.
When the bullet finally comes loose, I stare at the small piece of metal that could have killed him, then drop it into the tray with a metallic clink.
That’s when I realize he’s unconscious. Shit.
I slap fresh gauze over the bleeding and press down hard, then scramble to the cabinets. I grab a suture kit and more wraps before dropping back to my knees and getting to work.
I manage to stop the bleeding, but it takes longer than I’d like. The thread slips more than once because my hands won’t stop shaking, but I get it done stitch by stitch. I actually manage to sew him up while he’s out cold.
I scan the rest of him, trying to catch my breath when I notice there’s blood near his leg too. The fabric’s torn, dark and soaked near the thigh. I grab scissors and carefully cut the pants open. There’s a deep cut running along the muscle. A knife wound, maybe, or glass—the cut is long and messy. I clean it, stitch it, wrap it tight. When I finish, I sit on the floor with legs stretched out and arms limp at my sides.
I should call someone.
I study his face, his breath steady but shallow. Strong jaw. Sharp cheekbones. A tattoo sits beneath his eye near his cheekbone in some foreign writing. I hesitate. I shouldn’t be doing this … but I touch the ink anyway, tracing the letters, trying to make sense of them.
Jesus Christ. The man is almost dead, and I’m what? Admiring him?
I take in his completely inked neck, his hands, and his fingers. I remember his entire stomach covered in tattoos when I was stitching him, the way the muscle moved under my hands.
Who is he?
Every part of him looks powerful, dangerous. He’s huge, all muscle, and looks terrifying even unconscious. Which makes it worse—my brain decided to notice how attractive he is after he already held me at gunpoint.
I really should call the police right now while he’s passed out. It’s probably my only chance. I get to my knees and look at him again—but something about the way he’s lying there, his body gone slack, makes it harder than it should be. He didn’t hurt me, and he could have, and it didn’t feel like he wanted to scare me. It felt like desperation, like pure survival instinct.
Why here though? Why not a hospital? Why risk bleeding out in the back room of a vet clinic?
Animals do things out of panic when they’re hurt. They lash out and bite. They just know they’re in pain and scared and can’t think past it. I’ve never held that against them, and I treat them anyway. I actually can’t believe I’m sitting here applying that logic to a man who broke in and held me at gunpoint.
I should be calling someone. I should have done it already. What if saving his life just bought me a few more minutes before he decides I know too much?
One of his hands rests against his side, relaxed now. I spot a ring on his index finger, gold and heavy-looking. I glance up at his face again to make sure he’s still out cold. My hand moves before I can really think about it; I reach for the tattooed fingers and turn them gently to get a better look.
The ring is thick with a carved animal in the center, sleeping, with a skeleton key in its mouth. A wolf?
