Page 80 of Katya and the Young God

“He was bleeding all over my infirmary, and my friend was upset,” Katya replies, sanitizing her needle. “You forget, he was also a little shit about the entire thing.”

She can feel Pieter’s eyes on her hands, watching her with the needle. “I have never known Iakov to not be a little shit,” he says, finally, before studiously looking away when she pinches the skin together. “Did you know he actually took acting classes?”

“I’d believe it. I know you can’t feel that,” she says when he flinches, and she’s given stitches to actual children who are less queasy about this. “You’re just psyching yourself out.”

“And I’m doing it remarkably well,” he says back, his hands clenching on the fabric of the ugly couch. “He was really a shit to you?”

She doesn’t know where the conversation will trigger him into anger, trigger him into using his barely contained power, but she’s seen people try to distract themselves before. “Aimes was an outsider, didn’t know of any supernatural people, thought she was just having a one-night stand with a guy who offered her some sweet wine. He was a little shit about it. Broke one of my favorite guns. And my phone.”

Pieter laughs, but cuts it off, sudden, as she smooths her hand over the skin right next to the wound, providing a different sensation for his body to focus on besides the disconcerting pull of thread.

“So I sedated him the first chance I got and gave him stitches that left a huge scar, and I’m not sure he’s ever going to forgive me for that one,” she says, light. “Are all Demigods babies about this?”

She can feel the full force of the scowl he gives her, but she’s done, trimming the floss with a quick motion, before smoothing down the skin over the wound. He hisses in a breath from the touch.

“I’m still gonna rebandage it, I don’t want any stray dog hair to get in the wound,” she says, sitting back, admiring the work.

He cranes his neck down, finally, at the small neat row of stitches in his lower midsection, like he’s finally giving himself permission.

“Fit your standards?” She asks, intending for it to come out sarcastic, but instead it comes out soft.

“I’ve never actually had stitches,” he says, squinting at the wound, before visibly shuddering and all but yanking his shirt over his head.

“Provided you’re very careful,” she starts, hitching the shirt back up and taping over a bandage, “I see no reason why you can’t be up and about. Slow walks, that sort of thing.”

“Come with me to my cabin?” He asks, a bit too eager.

She raises an eyebrow at him, and he shrugs, obviously uncomfortable with the look.

“Some things can be useful,” he says, slowly climbing to his feet. “And you and your guns would be appreciated.”

“Think someone’s there?” Katya stands, crossing to her smallest safe and pulling out her shoulder holster. It looks funny over her flannel instead of the suits, but if they encounter anyone else out here she doubts they’ll comment on her fashion.

He equivocates with his hand, going to the small bag of clothing and shrugging on an over shirt. “I would know if they crossed the runes, but that doesn’t mean they don’t have surveillance.” He scratches at his stubble, a few days’ worth of growth, but it does a good job at disguising him. If Katya wasn’t looking hard, she would never have picked him out of a crowd, and she’s one of the more paranoid people she knows.

Instead, the half beard, overgrown curls, and flannel make him look like any one of the men she constantly sees in the Colorado mountains. Like he blends in far better than she does.

After a split second, she pulls out an extra small copper knife from the safe, holds it out to him. “Here,” she says, when he makes no move to take it. “If you’re that worried, a knife could be useful.”

He pulls himself to his full height, before slouching again to favor the injured side. “I have never relied on weaponry.”

“Well, now you’re not as super powered, so it’s just smart.”

His fingers graze hers as he takes it gingerly from her hand, before he tucks it away in his pocket, but there’s still a tinge of disdain on his features. “You don’t think you’ll miss it in your plethora of weaponry?”

She shrugs on a jacket and suppresses an eye roll.

* * *

Outside,the cold air hits her like a blade, and she grits her teeth against the cut of the wind. Clouds hang low in the air, but everything feels too cold, too sharp for rain.

Stepan bounces on ahead mouth open wide, tongue lolling out, crunching through the thick underbrush without a care in the world. And, given his thick fur, it probably feels amazing.

Pieter, for all his injuries, just cranes his neck up to the sky, breathing deep. Like this is how things should be, like this is his element.

He’s wearing substantially less layers than her.

“I hope you have proper jackets at your place,” Katya says, burying her hands in her pockets.

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