Page 52 of Beautifully Deranged

Shit.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I shove my feet into my slippers and storm across the hall. My fists slam against his door, my chest rising and falling too fast. I used to have a key. I threw it away when I decided to move on.Brilliant decision, idiot.

He opens the door, pale and hollow-eyed.

Blood. So much blood.

It’s soaking into his white button-up, the fabric clinging to his arm in deep red patches. "Fuck," I breathe, reaching for him before I can think. "You need to go to a hospital."

His fingers splay wide on my stomach, warm even through my thin shirt, and he buries his face in my neck. I go still. His breath is uneven, shuddering against my skin. But I swear that when he breathes me in something in him settles.

"You’re burning up," I whisper.

"Bring me the first aid kit from the bathroom," he murmurs.

I blanch. "You want to do this yourself?"

"Yes," he hisses. He grips the back of my head, yanking me close. "Be a good girl and get it for me."

I swallow and turn on shaky legs toward the bathroom. The dresser is flipped, maybe from his weight. I rip open the cabinet, fingers fumbling for the first aid kit with my heart in my stomach.

When I rush back to the living room, he’s slumped on the couch, looking far too at ease for a man bleeding out. He digs through the kit, pulling out the tweezers. And before I can stop him, he’s going for the bullet.

"You can’t be serious," I screech.

"It’s not the first time, sweetheart."

I clamp a hand over my mouth as he presses the tweezers into his own flesh, his jaw tightening. My nails dig into my palm. Gore never freaked me out; I could watch true crime documentaries all day and still sleep like a baby afterward. But this isn’t some faceless stranger. This ismyMikhail.

"Y’know," he drawls, his voice tight but still carrying that same infuriating ease, "you never used to be so squeamish."

"That was before you started ripping bullets out of yourself in front of me."

With a grunt, he pulls the bullet free. It clinks against the floor. He pulls out a needle and thread.

"You are not stitching yourself up without anesthetic—"

The needle sinks into his skin.

"Jesus fucking Christ," I hiss.

"For someone who hates me, you sure are worried."

"I don’t want you dead. That’s not the same thing," I burst out.

When he finally finishes, he hands me the gauze. I wrap it around his shoulder, securing it in place. I start to pull away, but he quickly clamps onto my wrist.

"Don’t go," he rasps, something close to desperation clouding his tone.

His grip tightens. "Please."

I bite my lip, shaking my head. "I wasn’t leaving. I just wanted to get you painkillers."

Slowly, he nods and releases my wrist.

I grab the meds and hand them over. He takes them in record speed before catching my wrist again, dragging me down until his head rests against my lap. His body is warm, feverish against my thighs.

I let him take his comfort from me. He holds my hand, guiding it to his hair. I thread my fingers through the strands, giving in.

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