Page 13 of Refrain

The farther I go, the easier it is to refocus. When I reach my house, I’m already counting how many stitches it will take to sew the woman up. Twenty, maybe. She’ll need to be numbed too, and I just pray that she still has a pulse.

I enter through the back door, hoping my neighbors aren’t watching at this time of night. My place is a mess. I have to flick a light on and carefully pick my way through stacks of blank canvas just to reach my bedroom.

Hopefully, Domi got away, because I won’t have much cash left to help her after this. I’ll need new sheets. There’s no time to strip the mattress, and the blonde leaves a vivid splotch of red the moment I set her down. She’s pale as shit. It’s an ominous sign paired with the state of her arm. I have to roll the sleeve of my shirt up just to get a good look at the wound. Vlad fucked her up good.

Forget stitches. If I don’t stop the bleeding soon, she’s dead anyway.

I leave her there against my better judgment and race into the bathroom. I only have one clean towel. When I return to the room, I use it to apply pressure to her arm. Within seconds, the material is already damp and colored scarlet.

But that’s the least of my problems.

She’s awake, her eyes glazed and unfocused. They stare beyond my head as her mouth contorts, but she never forms a single word. Just a piercing scream that cuts me to the core. Thekind of bloodcurdling sound that would make anyone within a mile radius immediately call the cops.

“Shit. It’s okay,” I say, trying to make my voice soothing.

Either she doesn’t hear me, or she doesn’t care. Her limbs flail, the injured one spraying blood across the wall in a violent arc. My first instinct is to cover her mouth beneath my palm, but her teeth sink in deep. She’s strong—I’ll give her that much credit. Her fingers clutch at my shoulder, the nails slicing through my skin. I’m panting with the effort it takes to shrug her off.

My med kit is at my feet, and I kick it open without thinking. In ten seconds, I have a syringe drawn and stuck within a vial of sedative. The last of it fills the barrel just as the blonde gets her feet on the floor and tries to stand.

I clench my teeth at the sound she makes. It’s pained and wild, like a trapped animal. With one hand, I pin her down while the other stabs the needle into the crook of her uninjured arm.

The drug won’t work immediately. After rummaging through my kit, I find two objects I’ve only had to use a few times—a pair of handcuffs. She kicks me as I get one set around her right wrist and secure it to the bed. Her fist weakly slams into my shoulder as I capture her other wrist and slap a cuff onto it as well.

Jesus, she’s loud. Hysterical. I briefly consider using a pillow to shut her up, but she finally dies down, her eyes sliding shut.

Thank god I invest in the good narcotics.

Not that I have much time for relief. Someone’s at my front door. Pounding on it.

The cops?

I grab a new shirt from my closet and wipe off as much blood as I can on the sheets. As much good as that does. Now, I just resemble a serial killer rather than the survivor of a bloodbath.

“Give me a minute!” I shout on my way into the kitchen. I risk making Officer Do-Gooder suspicious just long enough to wash my hands. Breathless, I dart down the hall and throw the front door open.

“It’s about fucking time!”

I nearly barrel over in relief at the sound of that voice. The man standing on my porch is no police officer. Hell, Arno would probably take offense to the comparison. I bet he came straight from the bar. His eyes are bloodshot, nearly the same shade as his hair.

“What the fuck happened? I tried calling your cell, but you never answered.” He pushes his way past me and strides into my kitchen as though he owns the place. Facing me, he crosses his arms over his chest. “The Russians’ territory is swarming with fucking pigs. What the hell happened?”

Despite everything, I shrug. “I thought you could tell me.”

Though maybe the blonde woman can. She knew that place. Something tells me she knew Vlad too, considering the greeting she gave him.

“So much for doing business with the Syndicate,” I tell Arno. I can’t keep the relief out of my tone.

“No shit,” he says and braces his hands against my kitchen table. “Now, tell me. What happened?”

After taking a deep breath, I start from the beginning—but for some reason, I don’t mention the blonde or Vlad’s happy ending.

Maybe it’s out of selfishness, one of the few traits Dante and I seem to share. I want to hear her story myself, before anyone else can drag it out of her.

Maybe she’ll spill what she knows if I ask nicely?

Though, with Domi’s life on the line, I’m not sure if I can afford to wait.

CHAPTER FIVE

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