That’s when it hits me.
This girl’s in the life.
Has to be.
She comes back with the kit, sets it on the coffee table, and starts pulling out supplies. Antiseptic, gauze, medical tape. Her movements are efficient, practiced.
“You’ve done this before,” I say.
She doesn’t look up. “Haven’t we all?”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Nope it’s not.”
She soaks a gauze pad in antiseptic and presses it to my shoulder without warning.
Fire explodes across my skin. I hiss through my teeth, fist clenching.
“Hold still,” she says.
“You could warn a guy.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“I’m going to have to dig out that bullet,” I grit.
“I can do it.”
I still and watch her work. Eyes set in determination as she cleans my wounds.
“What’s your name?”
Her eyes meet mine. “Ayla. You got sutures in here for the graze?”
I nod, keeping my eyes on her face. There’s something about the way she moves—efficient, controlled, like she’s done this in worse conditions than my dusty safe house.
“Should be in there,” I say, gesturing to the kit with my chin.
She digs through it, pulls out the suture kit, and sets it beside the antiseptic. Her hands don’t shake. Not even a tremor.
Most people would be losing their shit right now.
“You’re calm,” I observe.
“Would you prefer I panic?” She threads the needle with ease.
“No. Just... interesting.”
She glances up at me, those dark eyes sharp. “Do you want a drink?”
“I mean maybe tomorrow night—”
“No.” She pours more antiseptic on a fresh gauze pad. “For before I cut into you.”
Oh.
She’s definitely not civilian.
