I blink, confused. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”
A long, pained sigh leaves his chest and he stills.
God. I have to do this. I have to try and save him. Not because his little brother will kill me if I don’t but because he put my life before his own.
It doesn’t make any sense but I can’t dwell on it. I need to somehow get the bullet out of his flesh and stop the bleeding, fast.
“Brando.”
His eyes snap to mine, dipped brows betraying just how worried he is.
“I need things.”
He’s on his feet.
“I need a trauma kit. Not a first aid box—a real one. Gauze, hemostatic if you have it. Saline. IV line. Sutures. Now.”
He moves fast.
My fingers shake as I wipe away some of the blood but it’s no use. The more I clear, the more it seems to pool.
Sounds of breaking glass and falling cupboards filter through to the lounge from the back.
“Fiero, I need you to breathe for me,” I say firmly. “Nice and slow. Full breaths.”
His lips part and he begins a ragged inhalation. Relief crashes through me so hard it almost makes me dizzy.
“Good. Keep going.”
Brando returns, dropping the kit beside us.
“I need to roll him.”
Brando lifts Fiero’s shoulder and presses a thick palm against his hip.
“And I need to remove his mask.”
A weak moan rises up from the carpet but it’s Brando I fix my stare on.
“I need to be able to see his reactions.”
Brando nods once.
Returning my gaze to Fiero, I take his mask between shaking fingers. It’s molded to his face with complete precision. It was clearly custom-made. I lift it gently, despite another faint moan, and push it up to his forehead.
My breath disappears like a puff of smoke.
He’s…beautiful.
Thick black lashes that flicker periodically—the only obvious sign he’s in pain. Deep, full brows, sharp cheekbones. His olive skin glows even though the blood has drained from it.
There’s a distinct likeness to his brother but there’s more depth to his features. Something tugs at my memory but I don’t have time to ponder it. Besides, I’ve never met these brothersbefore in my life. It’s possible I’ve seen pictures in the papers perhaps—that’s all.
I force my gaze to the back of his shoulder.
“There’s the exit wound,” I say on a relieved breath.
It’s better than a lodged bullet but still dangerous. There’s always a chance of internal bleeding, organ damage, infection. Shock.
