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“Sit down.”
He pulls the lollipop out and glares. “I’m not a dog.”
“Dogs are usually less argumentative when they’re injured.”
His eyes narrow as I guide him down to the edge of a small couch. The moment he is seated, I move behind him again and lift the hair away from the stitches to inspect them properly. Up close, they look even worse than I thought. The wound was cleaned, but not well enough, and whoever closed it had a shaking hand.
“You did this?” I ask.
He sucks on the lollipop once, then nods. He’s always more compliant when there’s something sweet in his mouth. Apparently, all it takes to get him to cooperate is sugar and a little patience.
“How did you get hurt, Ilya?”
He leans away from my hand, but not enough to stop me working. “Why do you care?”
I smooth a strand of hair away from the wound and keep my voice even. “Answer me.”
“It was during a fight.” He bites lightly on the lollipop stick and looks away. “Nothing important.”
I move around the couch and kneel in front of him so he has no choice but to look at me. One of my hands comes down to rest on his knee.
“It’s very important to me if you get hurt.”
His expression opens for one moment, letting me peak under his shield. “Why?” He glances down at my hand on his knee. “I hurt you all the time. I stab you too. So why do you care if I’m hurt?”
I smile at him, softer than I usually let myself. Because the answer is embarrassingly simple. “I just do.”
I hold his gaze and keep my thumb moving once over the fabric at his knee. “So don’t get hurt anymore.”
“And if you do,” I continue, “go to a doctor. Don’t try to fix this kind of thing yourself.”
“Bossy.”
“You could’ve gotten an infection.”
He takes the lollipop out again and gives me a crooked little look. “Then I’d die and you’d be happy.”
My hand is on his jaw before the last word fully leaves his mouth. It isn’t violent, but firm enough to stop that kind of nonsense where it starts. “Ilya.”
I hold his face, thumb pressing at the corner of his mouth, and let him see exactly how little I appreciate that sentence. “Don’t say stupid things like that.”
His throat moves as he swallows, and the lollipop stick shifts against his lower lip. He looks unguarded, but then he plays it down. “Fine. Fine. I got it.”
He puts the lollipop back in his mouth and sucks on it. I sit back on my heels and look up at him. His hair is a little disordered from my hands, and his lips are still faintly pink around the candy.
“You should’ve called me.”
“No.”
I tilt my head. “No?”
“No, I shouldn’t have called you.” He says it like the idea is absurd. “Why would I call you?”
“So I could take care of it properly.”
He laughs, humorless. “Yeah, right.”
“I’m serious.”
