His blood was everywhere.
On my hands. My clothes. Seeping into the cracks of my kitchen counter as I hauled his massive frame onto the surface. Each ragged breath he took sprayed more crimson across my skin, but I couldn't stop. Not now.
"Stay with me," I muttered, more to myself than him.
My fingers shook as I grabbed the medical supplies I'd "borrowed" from my hospital rotations. Stolen, really, but ethics seemed pretty irrelevant with a dying man on my counter.
The neck wound was bad, but manageable. Clean entry, no major vessels hit by some miracle. But his abdomen... Christ. Someone really wanted this guy dead.
"Gunshot first, then stabbed," I whispered, cataloging injuries like I was back in class. "They weren't taking chances."
The morphine went in smoothly – thank god for steady hands. As his breathing eased slightly, I got my first real look at him.
Scars. So many scars. Old bullet wounds, knife marks, burns that spoke of torture rather than accident. This was no random mugging victim.
I knew those scars. I had seen similar ones on my father's skin, on Kaiden's men. The language of violence written in flesh.
Focus. He's just another patient.
But patients didn't usually come with guns.
I worked mechanically, letting training override panic. Cleaned. Stitched. Bandaged. Applied pressure where needed and prayed where I couldn't do more. Hours passed in a blur of blood and antiseptic.
Finally, his breathing steadied. Color crept back into his face – still ghostly pale, but no longer the grey mask of approaching death. I slumped to the floor, legs giving out as adrenaline crashed.
What the hell had I done?
The answer lay in blood trails across my floor, in the gun I'd found when moving him to the couch. I'd saved a mafia member's life.
Again. And this time, there'd definitely be consequences.
"Shit." I pressed my palms against my eyes. "Shit, shit, shit."
Options scrolled through my mind like a twisted Choose Your Own Adventure:
Call police: End up dead in a ditch when his “friends find” out.
Hospital: Same outcome, different ditch.
Underground doctor: Might work, if I could find one. Every gang kept them on payroll these days, with territory wars heating up.
But first, evidence.
I dragged myself up, muscles screaming. Grabbed buckets, bleach, rags. The metallic tang of blood filled my nose as I scrubbed floors, surfaces, and doorways. Each splash of water carried away traces of what I'd done.
His phone was cracked but functional. I plugged it in, careful to wipe prints. Did the same with his gun, though touching it made my skin crawl. Tools of death had no place in hands meant for healing.
The shower couldn't wash away my thoughts. Hot water turned pink, then clear, but questions lingered like steam:
Who was he? Who wanted him dead? How long until they realized they'd failed?
Exhaustion won eventually. I settled on the floor near the couch, telling myself I needed to monitor his vitals. Really, I just couldn't bear to leave him alone.
Dead men brought no trouble, but living ones...
Sleep came in fits and starts. Each time his breathing changed, I jolted awake. Dawn crept in through my basement windows, painting shadows across his unconscious form. In daylight, he looked almost peaceful.
The weight crashed onto my chest without warning.
My eyes flew open to find him straddling me, one hand pinning my shoulders, the other pressing his gun into my flesh. Light eyes bored into mine, cold and calculating despite the pain evident in his face.
"Who are you?" His voice was gravel and steel. "Why am I here? Who sent you?"
The barrel dug deeper. "Think carefully, bella. Lie to me, and you'll regret it for a very long time."
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. All I could feel was his weight, his heat, the cold kiss of metal against my skin.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, a bitter laugh: I'd saved his life, and now he might take mine.