Page 50 of Arranged Curves for the Bratva
“It's nothing. A graze,” I mumble, taken aback by the extent of her worry.
“You call that a graze?” she asks with such anger that I nearly step back. “Are you insane? That much blood can’t be good. What were you thinking getting in the middle of such a fight? Can’t you be careful? Don’t you have men to help you with things like this?”
I stand there, frozen, as Lilibeth continues her tirade. Her eyes are wide with fear and anger, her cheeks flushed, and her hands gesture wildly. It's the first time someone outside my family has shown such concern for me, and I'm not sure how to handle it.
“Agafon, are you even listening to me?” she demands, her voice trembling slightly. “You could have been killed. Do you understand that? You have people who care about you, who need you. You can't just throw your life away like this.”
“Let me see.” It's not a request. She's already moving toward me, her hands reaching for the hem of my shirt.
“Lilibeth—”
“Shut up and let me help you,” she snaps, and the fierceness in her voice actually silences me.
I blink, taken aback. I've always been the one taking care of others, making sure my family is safe. No one has ever fussedover me like this, not even my own mother. Lilibeth's worry is so raw, so genuine, that I don’t have it in me to fight her any longer.
Chapter 17 - Lilibeth
I try to lend Agafon a hand as we head up the stairs, offering to let him wrap an arm around my shoulders for support, but he refuses.
“I’m alright, I swear,” he waves me off and carries on by himself.
But, is he?
I don’t know how he’s doing it, walking to his bedroom. The blood has now dried down his sleeve, and there’s so much of it that I feel like I might faint at the sight. Anxiety is crawling through me, but I keep my shit together for him.
He holds his left arm carefully against his body, and from the way he walks, I know he’s in pain. Yet, of course, he won’t admit it.
But even getting him to listen is a task, and I’m just grateful he’s agreeing to let me clean him up. Tonight, I saw just how obstinate he’s capable of being. He refused to see a doctor, refused my help until I raised my voice.
And something in him changed when I did. I put on quite a convincing show, and I think he saw Ineededhelp, or I would make myself sick with worry. Though I am glad he’s come around, I’m also sad to see that he doesn’t know how to let alone ask for help, but even accept it when it’s being offered. How lonely his life must be; how terribly difficult it is to carry all that burden on his shoulders.
Once we reach the end of the corridor upstairs, I rush ahead of him and open the door to let him through. He literally glowers at me for doing so, mumbling yet another,“I’m fine.”
Clearly, he hates being fussed over. He’s the kind of man who would probably operate on himself if he could.
Once inside, I wave him toward the bed. “Sit,” I tell him with a glower of my own, and though he raises his eyebrows at the command in my voice, he does as asked.Thank god.
“Where’s the first aid kit?” I ask.
“It’s in the bathroom, under the sink.” His eyes point at the door.
“Thanks.” I give him a smile. “Be right back. Don’t run off.”
In answer, he tries to lift his left arm and winces in the process. Message received. He’s in too much pain to run.
In the bathroom, under the sink, I find the first aid kit as he said I would. When I lift it, it’s heavier than usual, and I know why. Agafon’s work, his life, requires hospital-like assistance at the strangest hours on some days. It scares me that he needs something this medical-grade lying around in his bedroom, but there’s nothing I can do about it now, can I?
My brothers lead their lives the same way. This fear, I was born with it. Will probably die with it. It’s my responsibility to manage it.
Back by his side, I set the kit on the bed beside him and lean over him. “Would you mind?” I ask, pointing at his shirt. “I need to see the wound.”
He moves to unbutton it himself, but his fingers fumble. Without asking, I kneel between his knees and take over, aware of his breath against my collarbone. I try to remove the shirt and notice the cloth is stuck to the wound.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, reaching for some saline and scissors. “I’m going to have to cut it off because otherwise, it can rip off the clot and bleed again.”
“Do what you must,” he says. I wince the whole time, literally feeling like I’m the one in pain as inch by inch, I soak and cut the material, careful not to hurt him.
I sigh with relief when it’s finally off.
