Page 33 of Kept in the Dark
As I make more slow, careful, methodical stitches, he does his best impression of a hunk of marble, though the effort is drawing a cold sweat to his forehead. I need to distract him again, I think. “So how long are we going to hide out here?”
“We need answers to several questions before we can return to land.”
“Like what?”
“We need to know what is in your stomach. If it is drugs, we will dispose of them. You saw the Narcan in here,” he adds, nodding down at the bag. “We also need to know if Kyle is alive. I have contacted somepeople I know, who will notify me if he appears in a hospital or jail or the morgue.”
It almost makes me shiver. He knows people who have access to morgue and hospital records? Those are the kinds of resources cops have, but I know he’s not talking about law enforcement. “Then what?”
“It depends on whether he is alive.”
Bile rises in my throat. If Kyle is dead, he’s not a danger to me—I’ll just need to figure out how to convince Dimitri to let me go. “What if he’s alive? He’s going to come after me, right? He wants this back,” I point to my stomach. “And I’ll bet he’s involved in some really dangerous stuff.”
When Dimitri doesn’t respond, I hazard a glance up. He’s staring thoughtfully. “Are you sure you want the answer to that?”
I don’t like the implications of his question, so my response is a knee-jerk, “Not really.” I sigh. “But I already know some things, so I might as well have the complete story.”
“Some things,” he repeats, an implied question.
“I know you didn’t want to go to the police when most normal people would. I know that the shooting was probably related toBratvas,” I add as an afterthought. I’m not sure if I’m helping or hindering my cause, but I have to hope that if I show him I can keep quiet about stuff, that will help. Right?
“What do you know about theBratva?” he asks, voice sharp.
“Only what the internet tells me,” I sniff defensively. “And that my third cousin might have just married into one, if the guest list at that wedding is any indication.”
He says nothing to that, but makes a grunting noise that could be anything from an acknowledgment to a pain response to gas. “You cannot un-know things, Nicole. Are you certain you wish to know?” he presses.
“No. Fuck,” I curse, turning my head. “Just… tell me one thing. Is there a chance we make it out of this and I don’t have to look over my shoulder for Russian guys with guns for the rest of my life?”
He keeps doing that—looking at me with that strange expression. I can see him in my periphery. “Da.”
“Da.Okay. Then I can hold on to that, and it can be enough for now.”
Even though I still want to know what the hell is going on, I let it drop so I can focus all my attention on the task at hand. I make the extra effort to be sure my stitches are no bigger than necessary and perfectly parallel.
“Done,” I announce finally, my breath whooshing out as I straighten. I crack both sides of my neck, work a small stretch through my back and shoulders, then collect the bloody gauze and needle and pile everything into a double-thick bag from the kit for medical waste. The second I stand, my gloves come off, and I rub my closed eyes under the lenses of my glasses.
He’s sitting up when I turn back around, examining the stitches with his head tilted to the side. He looks impressed, and it makes my face feel warm.
But that sense of pride melts back into the now-familiar unease as he stands. I fall back a step. Somehow, I forgot how huge he was when he was prostrate. Even with his head tilted forward, he’s a full head taller than me—that’s never not going to be weird for me. My heart kicks me in the ribs.
He stoops, wincing a little at the pulling on his side, and grabs the shirt from where he placed it next to him on the bed. We both stare at the ruined state of what was once a very nice button-down, and I can’t hold back an amused exhale through my nose.
“Shame. Looks tailored,” I tsk, taking in the red-brown stain and large hole.
“It was,” he agrees.
“You’ll never get dried blood out of silk. Believe me, I’ve tried,” I say, my eyes dropping to the wound.
A stirring at the lower edge of my vision catches my attention, and my mouth goes dry as I realize where it’s coming from. His sweatpantshave plenty of give and room, and I can see a sizable bulge forming and growing.
My eyes widen, then fly up to meet his as my pulse races. He’s… he’s getting hard? Now? After the pain I just inflicted on him? Medically, I know people can’t always control their body’s reactions, but personally… a guy I’m insanely attracted to is getting hard right in front of me.
Oh my God, what do I—
The corner of his mouth twitches, like my obvious panic amuses him. “Thank you for this, my med.”
Oh, we’re doing cute nicknames based on our occupations? What am I supposed to call him, killer? The possessive pronoun makes my heart leap, but… it’s good, right? Who would want to hurttheirmedic?
