Page 66 of Echo: Burn
"You're good at this," he observes.
"Lots of practice with field injuries." I thread the needle, grateful my hands are steady despite everything. "You'd be surprised how many farmers bring in animals with wounds that look exactly like this. Barbed wire, machinery accidents, you name it."
"Comparing me to livestock?"
"If the veterinary care fits." I start the first suture, keeping my touch gentle despite the circumstances. "Besides, you're tougher than most horses I've treated."
He almost smiles. "That a compliment?"
"That's me keeping you talking so you don't tense up and make this harder." Another suture. The wound is clean, no debris I can see, but I check carefully. Missing something now could mean infection later. "What happened out there, Kane? How did they know exactly where we'd be?"
His jaw tightens. "Kessler. Had to be. He knows my patterns, knows I'd check the cabin after the Committee activated Protocol Seven. He set the trap and we walked right into it."
"But we got out."
"Barely." His hand finds my wrist, stilling my work for a moment. "If you hadn't had that atropine, if your father hadn't prepared you for chemical exposure...”
"But he did." I resume suturing. "Dad never stopped looking over his shoulder after Yemen. All that time, he was preparing me for threats I didn't understand. Turns out he knew exactly what he was doing."
"He saved your life tonight."
"Yeah." The thought sits heavy. "He did."
I finish the last suture, tie it off, apply a clean dressing. Kane's ribs will ache for weeks, but the wound is closed, risk of infection minimal if he keeps it clean.
"Your turn," he says.
"It's just a head wound. They bleed a lot but...”
"Sit." Command voice. The one that doesn't allow argument. "Let me look at it."
I sit. He moves with practiced efficiency despite the fresh sutures, parting my hair to examine the gash. His fingers are gentle, surprisingly so for hands that have killed as many people as his have.
"Needs three stitches," he says. "Maybe four."
"Then do it."
He works in silence, each stitch precise and careful. I focus on breathing through the sting, on not thinking about how we almost died tonight, on definitely not thinking about how natural it feels to have Kane touching me like this.
"Done." He applies a dressing, fingers lingering for a moment in my hair. "How's your ankle?"
"Sprained, not broken. I can walk on it."
"That wasn't the question."
"It hurts. But I've had worse." I test my weight, wincing but mobile. "I'll wrap it. It'll hold."
Sarah returns with clean tactical pants and shirts for both of us. "Conference room in ten minutes. Everyone's waiting for the debrief."
Ten minutes to change, to look like we didn't just survive a coordinated assassination attempt. Ten minutes before we have to face the reality of what comes next.
Kane's hand finds mine as Sarah leaves. "You okay?"
"I killed more people tonight." The words come out flat. Clinical. "I can’t keep count anymore. What is it six? Seven? How many human beings won't go home because I pulled a trigger?"
"Human beings who were trying to kill you first." His thumb traces circles on my palm. "That's not murder, Willa. That's survival."
"The scariest part?" I look at our joined hands. "It's getting easier. That first one in the truck—I almost threw up after. Now I just reload and move to the next target."
