I had no claim.
Destiny was not mine.
I had no claim.
My body and temper disagreed.
“How’s our favorite gunshot wound?” Bennett asked.
“Our?” I said.
The word came out rough as gravel.
Destiny’s mouth twitched like she wanted to smile and was furious about it.
Bennett glanced at me. “Figure of speech.”
“Try another.”
He looked surprised.
Good.
Destiny adjusted the cuff around my arm with more force than necessary. “He’s alive. We’re calling that progress.”
Her fingers brushed my forearm.
My pulse jumped.
The cuff caught it.
So did she.
Her eyes flicked down.
Then up.
For one brief second, she looked almost rattled.
That pleased me in a way I had no right to enjoy.
Bennett kept talking, oblivious or brave. “Vitals?”
Destiny gave them to him, smooth and professional. “Temperature normal. O2 stable. Pressure acceptable. Pain underreported.”
“Snitch,” I muttered.
Bennett laughed. “She’s tough on everybody, Degan. Don’t take it personally.”
I looked at Destiny.
She did not look at me.
“I don’t,” I said.
Liar.
Everything about her was personal.
