Page 96 of Obsidian
“Can walk well enough to keep you alive. That is what matters.”
“That's not?—”
“Do not argue with me right now, Sebastian. Just move.”
We reached a parking garage. Old. Abandoned by the look of it. Graffiti covered the walls. Broken glass littered the ground. Perfect.
I pulled him into the stairwell, and we climbed. Each step was agony. My vision was starting to blur at the edges. Blood loss. Shock. My body trying to shut down.
Not yet. Not until he was safe.
Third level. Found a corner hidden from view. Behind a concrete pillar. Out of sight from the entrance.
I slid down the wall, breathing hard. Everything hurt. Everything was on fire. My hands were shaking.
Sebastian knelt beside me immediately, hands moving over my injuries with surprising competence. Checking. Assessing. His touch was gentle but efficient.
“Shoulder's through-and-through. That is good, but you have losta lot of blood. Ribs are grazed but I do not think anything is fractured. Arm is bad. Bullet might still be in there.”
“You know field medicine?”
“I know enough.” He pulled off his jacket, started tearing strips from his shirt underneath. White fabric turning red in his hands. “This is going to hurt.”
“Everything already hurts. Do what you need to do.”
He packed the shoulder wound with fabric, pressing down hard. I hissed through my teeth, vision whiting out for a second.
“I am sorry. I know it hurts. But I need to stop the bleeding.”
“You are doing fine. Keep going.”
He worked quickly. Efficiently. Like he'd done this before. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.
He finished bandaging the shoulder, tied it off tight. His hands lingered there, warm through the fabric. Real. Solid.
Rain drummed on concrete above us. Sirens wailed in the distance, getting closer. The world kept turning while we sat bleeding in an abandoned parking garage, inches apart, everything wrong between us suddenly feeling inevitable.
I should've moved. Should've ended this before it became something neither of us could take back. Should've maintained the discipline that had kept me alive for thirty-eight years.
But I was tired. Bleeding. And he was looking at me like I mattered beyond my ability to kill for him. Like I was something more than weapon. More than ghost.
Like I was human.
“We should go,” I said instead of what I wanted to say. Instead of admitting that I wanted him too. That I'd wanted him since the workshop. Since he'd touched my face in the training hall. Since I'd realized he saw me. “Emergency services will be here soon. We need to be somewhere they can find us.”
“Yeah.” But he didn't move. Neither did I.
We sat there in that gray space, rain and blood and something unnamed between us, his hand still on my chest, my fingers still around his wrist.
14
SECRETS IN THE SMOKE
VIKTOR
Imade it to my quarters on will alone. Each step was negotiation with a body that wanted to quit. Shoulder throbbing where shrapnel had torn through. Ribs screaming where the bullet had grazed. Arm numb where the third round had caught me.
Dr. Amir had done his work an hour ago. Extracted the bullet lodged near bone. Stitched what needed stitching. Wrapped what needed wrapping. Given me antibiotics and painkillers I'd refused and a lecture in Urdu I'd endured because I deserved it.
