Page 56 of Velvet Betrayal
“I know. Now let me see your ear.” I scooted closer, fingers gentle on his temple, remembering the first time I’d patched him up—cheap iodine, a bathroom lit by a flickering bulb. Back then, he thought scars were free. Now, in the harsh office light, I could see what time had carved into his face—every fight, every secret, every wound mapped in new lines.
“It’s clotting,” I said.
“You’re a regular Florence Nightingale.”
“You’re remarkably lucid for someone with a probable concussion. You reading the medical diplomas on the wall?” I pointed at the only plaque: a liquor license and a motivational cat meme—HANG IN THERE, BABY.
Kieran grinned. “Our family’s always had a thing for cats with bad boundaries.” He glanced at my hands. “You’re shaking.”
“I always shake. It’s called ‘dealing with your family.’” I grabbed a bottled water, twisted the cap, and handed it to him. “Drink. Dehydration plus head trauma equals more time with me. Nobody wins.”
He drank, Adam’s apple moving under the stubble. I watched, remembering the last time we’d been this close, and hating how much I still wanted it. “Promise me you’ll let Tristan’s guy take a look at you,” I said. “If you’re bleeding somewhere inside that idiot head, I’d rather not be the one who has to explain it.”
“No one ever compliments my head,” he said, closing his eyes. “You don’t have to babysit.”
“I’m not. I’m making sure you don’t die and leave me holding the bag.” I propped a foot on the rung of my chair, determined to outlast him. The skin around his brow was already swelling, cartoonish and angry. I let myself look, really look, at the mess. “Why do you think this is worth it?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Because you are.”
I huffed, the sound too loud in the room. “If you make this about self-sacrifice, I will actually hurt you.”
He smiled, just a flicker. “I meant it.”
We sat, side by side, while the city went dark behind the frosted glass. It would’ve been peaceful, if not for the wind and the sound of Tristan in the hall, playing chess with the city’s worst people.
I thought about the job boards, the men who’d cycled through my life, the contract on my own head now just another gig on someone’s phone. I wondered what would happen to Rosie. I wondered if the only way out was to disappear, become a mom in the suburbs and hope the memory of Ruby Marquez faded behind some bigger scandal.
I didn’t want that. I hated that I wanted anything else.
Kieran reached over, tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. His pupils got wider when he looked at me. “I’d never let anything happen to you. You know that, right?”
“That’s your problem,” I said, but my pulse slowed, the weird tenderness of his touch softer than stitches or ice. “You still think the world works like that.”
He shifted, breathing easier now that the bleeding had stopped. I let my shoulders drop, waiting for Tristan to reappear and tell me how badly I’d managed his favorite disaster.
But Kieran didn’t check out. He just watched me, like time had collapsed to this shitty office, this moment. I almost wanted him to crack a joke, break the tension, but he just sat there, and I let myself be seen.
Then he leaned in and kissed me. I tasted blood, and cheap liquor, and something that felt almost like hope. It was so gentle, so at odds with everything that had brought us here, that for a second I thought maybe I’d imagined it. But he pulled back, searching my face for shrapnel, like he was hoping the damage could be fixed.
“You’re a mess,” I said, because it was the only thing I could say.
He grinned, black eye sparkling. “Only for you, Rubes.”
Before I could say something reckless, Tristan came back, flanked by a doctor so thin he looked like he’d been pressed in a book.
“This is Dr. Mehta,” Tristan said. “Kieran, he’ll need ten minutes. Ruby, you can use the office upstairs. Or stay.”
I hesitated, then shrugged like it didn’t matter. “I’ve already missed two meetings. Nobody’s expecting me now.”
Tristan didn’t press. He disappeared down the hall.
I stayed.
Not because I had nothing better to do—God knew I did—but because there was something about the way the room felt, heavy with the hush of criminal efficiency, the quiet intimacy of watching someone be put back together by a stranger’s steady hands.
The doctor worked without commentary, unpacking his kit with the calm of a man who’d sewn up worse. Kieran didn’t flinch—just sat there, jaw tight, while Dr. Mehta glued his scalp shut and tested his pupils.
I told myself I was watching to make sure he was okay. But the truth was simpler: I liked being here. Liked being let in.
