She peered into my face. “Kirill?”
“Yes, wife.”
“What did you say?”
The words seemed clear in my head when I said them, but apparently not.
“My heart. It hurts. Did you shoot me in the chest?” I coughed. Fuck, everything hurt now. I was such a pussy. It was just a nick to the fucking trapezius. Out of nowhere, I thanked the heavy shoulder shrugs I did in the gym that built those muscles.
“I don’t understand you.”
“Chest hurts.”
A gentle hand rested over the spot where pain radiated.
“It hurts here?”
I must have nodded. My eyes focused on her angelic features for a brief second. Tears streaked her face in remorse.
She was crying.
Over me.
Had I finally earned her tears?
She regretted shooting me. That much was apparent, but I also knew how to hold a grudge. Knew I was going to make her pay. Not with her suffering. I think she’d enjoy choking on my dick, but I would also get satisfaction for the indignity she was putting me through.
Chloe came back with towels, handed them to Lucy, and backed away.
“Are you sure those are clean?” I demanded.
She rolled her eyes.
She’d been toting a shotgun but had the barrel pointed down. Good. If she was pointing at me, then I was done playing the helpless schmuck because, fuck if I’d let my wife be in harm’s way just so I could soak up her care.
Lucy sniffed them. “They smell clean.” She pressed them onto my shoulder.
I groaned softly, but I couldn’t help nuzzling her arm that was in my line of sight.
But my wife didn’t seem to notice that I was rubbing against her like a cat. “Can you keep the pressure on? I have to call Sloane.”
“I think I’ll be fine.” I looked around Lucy at Chloe. “Do you have a first aid kit?”
She gave me the finger. The bitch really wanted me to bleed out.
“With the amount of blood, I think it needs stitches,” Lucy told me. “It’s hard to see where the blood is coming from. And I’d feel better if she looked you over.”
Lucy repeated her command for me to put pressure on the wound. While she walked off to call her sister-in-law, Chloe and I engaged in a staredown.
“So Bruce Davenport was hiding you.”
No answer. Just tapered death-glare eyes.
“Why not come forward? Then you won’t have to live in the dumps.”
“I like the quiet life.”
“A quiet life? You’re hiding.”
