“He needs a sterile environment and a surgeon,” I agree. “Not a bottle of antiseptic and a living room couch.”
“'He' can speak for himself,” Adrian says, his voice tight. The strain is a thread of steel woven through the pain. “And he says a hospital is a security nightmare right now.”
“I don’t care!” Teresa explodes. “You were shot, Adrian! Not scraped, not bruised. Shot!”
“And I’m still here.”
“Because you’re stubborn!” she yells.
“And because I’m trained,” he shoots back, his voice low and hard. “I’ve had worse.”
“Worse than this?” I ask in disbelief.
He doesn't answer. He just looks at me.
There is a story in that look. More than one. Things I can’t even imagine.
The scars I can see more clearly now that I'm focusing on his body tell their own stories.
A long, thin white line runs along his ribs on the opposite side. A round, puckered scar on his shoulder. A web of faded silver near the small of his back.
“See?” he says, as if he can read the thoughts on my face. “I’m a slow learner.”
Teresa makes a sound that is half sob, half fury, and stalks away to the far end of the room, her back to us.
Elena doesn't even look up from her work.
“He’ll be fine,” she says, but her tone is not as certain as I’d like. “He’s lost a lot of blood, but the bullet didn’t hit anything vital. Dr. Alfonsi will confirm that, and we’ll keep everyone here tonight under one roof, where we'll all be safe."
"Or one giant convenient target," I mutter.
"I've already called in more men," he says, then he winces as Elena presses down a little too hard. "And your father has put out a call as well." He looks at me. "There is no safer place for you right now than here."
He’s right, and that’s the most infuriating part of it all.
Chapter Fifteen
Adrian
I lie flat on my back in the dark and count the ways I hate this.
There are several.
The room is quiet, the lights off except for the thin spill of hallway glow coming under the door and the faint silver edge of moonlight slipping through the curtains.
It is not my room. Not my house. Not my perimeter, even if my own people are the ones holding the outer line tonight.
That matters, but not enough.
The mattress is too soft. The sheets smell clean, which tells me Elena changed them before I was allowed in here.
There is a glass of water on the nightstand, two bottles of pills I have no intention of taking unless the pain gets bad enough to compromise function, and a folded towel under my left side.
The doctor came and went a while ago.
Dr. Alfonsi. Retired, older than I expected, sharp-eyed in a way that made it clear retirement had not dulled his hands or his instincts. He confirmed what I already knew.
Through and through. Clean enough. No obvious organ involvement. No immediate signs of anything catastrophic. He cleaned it properly, stitched what needed stitching, dressed it, gave instructions, and then looked me directly in the eye and told me I should still go to a hospital for imaging and observation.
