Page 51 of Sinful Promise
Filling a glass at the tap and grabbing a bottle of prescription meds leftover from Archer’s gunshot wound, I return to the couch and place two pills in Micah’s good hand. “Take these. I’ll be back.”
Then I rush to the kitchen and wash up. I cleanse all the way to my elbows with soap and hot water, then I dry my skin with paper towels before grabbing another vial of antibiotic, and a fresh needle to jab him in the ass with.
“Do you feel sick?” Bringing my supplies back to the couch, I sit on the coffee table and lean closer to inspect his hand. The missing middle finger, and the jagged stump of what’s left behind. The stitches I worked hard to close, but with the full knowledge that his hand will never again look normal. “Nausea?”
“No.” His stomach muscles contract as he comes up to sit and tosses the pills onto his tongue, then he follows them with water and swallows down most of the contents of the glass.
His hand shakes, but I don’t say so. I don’t point out how weak he is, or how close he is to contracting a deadly infection and following so close behind his father.
“Got a headache, though.” Swallowing, he falls back against the couch and offers the water for me to take. “And I’m kinda sick of watchingJudge Judyreruns.”
With a small smile, I glance over my shoulder to watch the news, then I come back to Micah and study his jaw, the same square shape as Archer’s. The stubble that none of the Malones ever completely shave away. The long lashes, and slightly large nose.
“Cato was supposed to be here to help you.” I spy the remote across the room, but I don’t reach out and grab it. Not yet. Not for as long as I want to remain mildly sterile.
Picking up Micah’s hand instead, I bring it closer and turn it over to inspect his stitches. “Where is he?”
He closes his eyes and makes a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat. “Dunno.”
“How can you not know?” I scowl. “He’s a child. He should be supervised. Honestly, he should be in school. Not jet-setting around with the mafia.”
“He’s not legally an adult,” Micah counters, “but he was never a child either.” Yawning, he relaxes further back into the cushions and sleepily smacks his lips. “He wants to go out? I’m not gonna stop him.”
“And if he gets hurt while he’s alone? Or gets into trouble? Or someone picks on him?”
He scoffs. “If someone picks on him, he cuts their fucking tongue out, ends their life, and sends them home to their mother with a thank you note.” Forcing his eyes open and waiting for mine to come up, he grins. “Cato’s not a regular kid, Mayet. He’s fine.”
“He’s absolutely not fine,” I grumble. But I drop my gaze once more and continue inspecting his hand. “He’s a teenager who lived a life inside a family of organized crime. He was raised by an asshole, and has Felix Malone for a brother—who, by the way, is entirely out of touch with the real world. Cato has no clue how to be a regular kid, get into regular fights, or have a regular life outside of a mansion run by Timothy Malone the Second. Now he’s in a strange city, supposedly escorting his nearly dead brother to a doctor who doesn’twantto treat her patient. But he’s not here either, where he’ssupposedto be, at the end of a long-ass day. So no,” I look up and pin him with an angry glare, “Cato’s not okay. He’s soun-okay, I haven’t the slightest friggin’ clue on where to start making everything better for him.”
“You don’t.” Micah meets my anger with lazy acceptance. My pent-up rage, with relaxed tolerance. “He’s not complaining about the life he has, Doc. He’s a seventeen-year-old with a world of experience, a city full of women who take it in turns making sure he’s satisfied—”
“He’s a child!”
“He has no inclination to try out standard schooling, or be grounded or lose his devices for mouthing off to mom.” He flickers his eyes open and smirks. “You’re the mom in that scenario, by the way. And if you weren’t married to Arch, he’d be a lot more vocal on how he thinks you could satisfy his needs. Kid or not.”
Ugh.
I don’t want Cato Malone to have mommy issues. Or considermehis maternal proxy. I don’t want him to have a crush on, or sexual fantasies involving, me. And I sure as shit don’t want him wandering a strange city as the sun goes down, when he has no ride or safe way of getting around.
But, as always happens when the Malones are involved, I have no control over these things. I get no say, have no influence, and no way of stopping any of them from making stupid mistakes.
So, grinding my teeth together, I search my supplies and take out a fresh bandage. Then I go to work re-wrapping Micah’s hand. “I’m gonna give you another shot,” I tell him,moving away from discussions of Cato Malone’s sex life. “It’s to make sure we keep infection away. Then you’re going to sleep the whole night through and not wake again until tomorrow. I can give you sleeping pills if you need them, though I doubt you’ll be awake much longer.”
“I’m good without them.” He slides his tongue out to wet his dry lips. “It’s getting later back in New York, and I’m tired as fuck. What time is Arch getting back?”
“I don’t know.” I cast a look to the clock on the wall and consider. “Soon, probably. I haven’t talked to him since lunch—he’s working a case.”
“What case?” Tiffany Hewitt makes way for a weather report at my back: Copeland City has officially left winter, and now we’re heading toward a warmer spring. “Do you know?”
“I usually do.” I wrap. Wrap. Wrap, and feel horrible when he hisses from the pain. “But I don’t make a habit of discussing open cases with civilians. Are you willing to tell me yet why you flew across the country? I know it wasn’t to lie on my couch and have a doctor for the dead wrap your hand and stab your ass twice a day.”
He chuckles softly as I finish my task. “But that’s exactly why. I wantedmydoctor, not some random jackass in New York, and Cato wanted to fly over and see Arch. So when Felix said he could go…” He shrugs, but because he’s lying down, it’s mostly a scrape of his body on couch cushions. “That’s what we did. You can’t gatekeep everyone who comes to Copeland, Mayet.”
“Right.” And since he’s feeling frisky enough to be a jerk, I select another needle that’ll sting just enough to make him reconsider his practitioner, then I fill it with medication and drag his hip my way to reveal enough canvas to stab. “So Cordoza knows you’re here? In my apartment?”
“He knows we’re in Copeland,” he counters, then hisses when I push his jeans down and stab his butt cheek with enough force to almost—almost—make me feel bad. “He sends his best wishes… I think.”
I frown and pull back to dislodge my needle from yet another firm Malone ass.Damn them and their Timothy genes.“You think?”
