I go all the way to my room, closing the door as I walk to my bathroom where my own first aid kit is kept. If the bullet didn’t go all the way through, I’ll have to dig it out. But right now, I think I’d welcome the pain.
I strip off my shirt, tossing the bloodied garment to the floor. And then I grip the edges of the sink, staring into the mirror. Blood crusts my shoulder and chest. I stare at my reflection for several long moments, my jaw working, and then I rear back, swinging my fist toward the glass.
It shatters under the blow. Shards of it sprinkle down into the sink, around it, and I feel blood trickle down my knuckles. And I hear, from the middle of my bedroom, a soft gasp.
I turn to see that Liesl followed me. Liesl, standing in my bedroom, a foot from my bed, long legs on display and those perfect curves hidden in a t-shirt that can’t make me forget how good they felt under my hands.
I feel too raw for this. Too frayed. “Get out.” I bite out the words. “Get the fuck out of my room.”’
Even from this distance, I can see her eyes water. She swallows hard, but she doesn’t move.
"Liesl—" There’s a warning in my voice.
"This is my fault." The words come out in a rush, like she's been holding them in and can't anymore. "Men are dyingbecause my father won't just accept the ransom. Because I'm here causing problems and distracting you and?—"
"Stop." I draw in a sharp breath and release it. My shoulder hurts. My hand hurts. My fucking heart hurts. I want all of this to stop. But it isn’t on her, no matter how much I’d like to assign blame. "This is not your fault."
"Isn't it? If I wasn't here?—"
"If you weren't here, Volkov would still be testing my authority. All that’s changed is…” I break off, before I can say something I shouldn’t. "Doesn't matter. You should go."
"I came to apologize," she says instead. "For this morning. For trying to help when you didn't want it. For?—"
"You have nothing to apologize for."
"I do. You were right. I don't understand your world. I was naive to think I could just—" She stops, and I can hear the quaver in her voice. "I'm sorry. For all of it. For being here. For causing problems. For?—"
"Liesl." Whatever she hears in my voice, she falls quiet. "You are not the problem. You have never been the problem. And I was—" The words stick in my throat. "I was cruel this morning. You were trying to help and I lashed out because I was angry and scared and I took it out on you. That was wrong."
She stares at me, and I can see her processing the apology. The crack in my armor that I'm showing her, despite my better judgement.
"You're bleeding," she says finally, gesturing to my shoulder. Her gaze flicks over the wound, over my bare chest, and she takes a cautious step forward.
My jaw tightens. "I know."
"You should clean that up." She bites her lip, and takes another step.
I let out a harsh breath through my nose. "I will."
"Let me help."
I stare at her as she keeps moving toward me. I should tell her to get out, despite the apology I just gave for speaking harshly to her before. I shouldn’t let her get any closer when I'm barely holding onto my control as it is.
I watch her face as she takes in the damage. The bullet went through my shoulder, thank fuck. There’s no need for me to dig a bullet out of my own flesh. It’s still bleeding, but that can be stopped. It can be bandaged up. But there's blood everywhere else too. On my chest and arms and hands, evidence of the violence I committed tonight. The lives I took. The men I lost.
I expect her to recoil. To be horrified by the visual evidence of what I am. What I do. Instead she just looks at me and says, "Sit down."
I sink onto the edge of the tub, watching her as she opens the first aid kit. I feel wary, like I might bolt if she moves too fast, and she reacts as if she sees that, too. She takes out antiseptic, gauze, and bandages, moving around my bathroom like she belongs here, and I'm too tired and too raw to question it.
Too aware of how good it feels to have someone taking care of me. I’ve never had that. Not ever, in all my life. A longing strikes me, as deep and aching as the longing for sex. A need that I’ve never allowed myself to feel in any capacity before.
She kneels in front of me, and the position threatens to crack my already fragile control. She's so close I can smell her, clean and warm and tropical, completely at odds with the blood coating my skin.
"This is going to hurt," she warns, as she starts cleaning the wound with antiseptic-soaked gauze.
It does hurt. It burns like fucking fire. But I don't move, forcing myself not to do more than flinch. I watch her face as she works, taking in the concentration in her expression, the gentleness of her touch. She bites her lower lip when she's focused, I realize. I stare at her mouth, my heartbeat quickeningin my chest at the feeling of her hands moving over it, even if there’s pain.
I’d take all that pain, I realize, to feel the caress of her fingers against my skin. It feels like it could heal me from the inside out. Like it could put me back together again and destroy me all at the same time.
