“Fuck,” he breathes. “I can’t get… legs up.”
Not scared. Not scared. Not scared.
“No problem, I’ve got it.” I strain to pick his feet up, his legs heavier than I expect, but he’s finally on the bed, lying on his back, his upper chest rising and falling far too fast.
I pull my phone out. It’s taken us twenty minutes to get him up here, and it’s ten till eleven. Nothing from Steven, but I don’t know if Kurt gave him my number. If he’s not here by eleven, I’m calling Kurt and raising hell.
“What do you need?” I ask.
“Helmets.”
“They can wait until Steven gets here.” Instead, I unzip his right boot, tugging it off. He sighs like that’s better. I’m loath to touch his left one. “Do you want the other off?”
It’s several seconds before he responds. “Please.”
I unzip that one too, easing it over his ankle as carefully as I can. He still winces, tensing. His leather pants are ripped over his wound, and everything from there down is tacky with his blood. He’s lostso much. His head sags back into the pillow, and his arm slides off his chest, onto the mattress. Limp.
I swallow hard. “Declan.”
No response.
“Declan.” I grip his shoulder, giving him a shake.
“Not… dead yet.”
“That’s not even fucking funny.” My glare is wasted; his eyes are closed. I don’t know what else to do. He’s barely bleeding, the wound visible through the hole, just seeping blood. With the bullet in, I don’t know if pressure will help more than it hurts. He’s still shivering, and I draw the duvet over him, tucking him in. “Do you want water?”
His lips move like that might’ve been a yes, but no sound comes out.
I all but run into the kitchen, pulling my jacket off and throwing it on the couch, filling a glass and bringing it back. Just a few seconds away from him makes it all the more obvious how alarminglygreyhe is.
“Here,” I say, feeling helpless, and so,soscared. “You’ll have to sit up.”
He doesn’t move.
I dig deep, using my strong voice. “Declan Hale, if you die on me, you’ll never get to punish me.”
His mouth curls on one side, and my heart almost bursts in relief. “’S a promise?” he slurs, head lolling with the effort of speaking.
I slide an arm beneath his shoulders, lifting him enough to press the rim of the glass to his lips. He makes an effort to sip, but half of it runs down his chin, coating the week’s growth of stubble on his jaw. He’s too heavy to lift for long, and he slumps back down against the pillow as soon as I release him.
An inch of the water has gone, but I’m not sure how much he drank. I think most of it’s now down his shirt, and he was already shivering. Damn it.
The apartment buzzer sounds, and I almost sob with relief, running to the intercom to let Steven in. I hit the release, open my door and wedge it, then return to the bedroom, standing where I can see both Declan and the entry.
Steven takes his sweet-ass time, every second feeling like eternity.
Finally, he walks in. I met him once before, months ago at Kurt’s; he’s a short, slim man with a jovial face and glasses, more like a kindly family doctor than one who treats criminals on a regular basis. He gives me a smile and a cheery “Good evening,” wheeling a suitcase past me into the bedroom, and I pull the wedge from the apartment door and shut it before running back in.
Steven has his case open, an extendable pole already up beside the bed, a bag of fluid attached. He’s inserting a cannula into the crook of Declan’s elbow with quick, efficient movements. “What can you tell me?” he asks, without looking up.
“Uh… he’s lost a lot of blood. Thigh wound is bad and the bullet is still in. He has another on his side”—I indicate the area just below my ribs, but Steven’s not looking—“he was shivering and slurring. I… uh… gave him some water…” I trail off, feeling so helpless.
Steven hooks up the IV, then peels open Declan’s eyelid, and pushes two fingers against his neck over his pulse. He stills for half a minute, then nods once. “Can you help me, or does blood bother you?”
Declan’s blood bothers me.
“I’ll help you. Anything you need.”
