Page 81 of Eternal
The box, the bag, everything we came for.
He didn’t say anything as he climbed into the car, his eyes meeting mine again.
For a moment, neither of us moved. I could feel my pulse quicken, even though I hated myself for it.
He dropped the box behind my seat, the bag next to it, and then, for a long second, we simply stared at each other. I could see the corner of his mouth twitching as though he was holding something back.
It took everything in me not to let my breath catch, but I didn’t let him see, I couldn't, I wasn’t here to get wrapped up in whatever the hell this was.
“What was that?” I asked, keeping my voice steady.
“Shipment’s secure,” he said, his voice clipped, like he was done talking about it.
I narrowed my eyes. “You locked me in the car.”
His gaze flicked to mine, sharp and unreadable. “And what’s the problem?”
I crossed my arms over my chest, frustrated. “You didn’t haveto?—”
“Stop talking.” His voice was quieter now, almost dangerously so.
“I’m going to kill you one of these days.”
He laughed, a low, dark sound, before accelerating. “It would mean that you care about me.”
“Or that you’re an asshole,” I shot back.
“Same thing,” he said, glancing back at me with a small smile.
I waited, biting down on the pain, trying to keep my breathing steady for long minutes.
The mission could’ve been longer if we didn’t have the Don’s intel, so we're going back home, we weren't that far from the city, I needed to keep it quiet until we arrived.
My hand pressed against my side, uselessly trying to hold it together, but the blood kept slipping through my fingers. Without warning, my strength gave out, and my arm fell limply onto my lap, smearing dark red across my pants and the car seat.
The world tilted for a second, and before I could stop myself, I let out a shaky breath.
“Shit.” The car swerved slightly before coming to an abrupt stop, I barely registered the motion. “What the hell were you thinking?” Damir sounded angry, but his hands were already on me, unbuckling my seat-belt and pulling me toward him.
Before I could protest, he was so close that our noses touched.
“Let me see.”
“No. It’s nothing, keep driving.” I tried to bat his hands away, but it was laughable, weak, pathetic.
He ignored me, his movements soft as he pulled my shirt up enough to see, the sharp intake of his breath made my stomach clench.
“Idiot,” he muttered, his hand pressing firmly against the wound to staunch the bleeding. The pressure made me wince, but his grip didn’t falter. “You could’ve bled out.”
“I didn’t,” I mumbled, glaring at him through half-lidded eyes.
“Not for lack of trying.”
There was no warmth in his tone, no softness now in the way he worked. His fingers were deft, and precise, as he pulled a kit from the glove compartment and ripped it open.
He was angry. Not at the situation but at me.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” he demanded, cleaning the wound with a harshness that bordered on cruelty.
