Page 31 of Brick's Retribution

The man's eyes linger on Imani for a moment too long, but there's no recognition there—just the usual male appreciation for a beautiful woman.

Even in my flannel shirt, dusty jeans, and with her hair windblown to hell, she has that effect.

We return to the bike, collect our bags, and head to room 4.

The door sticks slightly when I unlock it, revealing a space that's basic but clean—queen bed with a faded floral comforter, small bathroom, ancient TV on a particle board dresser.

Imani locks the door behind us, adding the security chain.

"Sit," she orders, dropping her bag and pointing to the edge of the bed. "Let me see how bad it is."

I almost argue out of habit, but the determination in her voice tells me it would be wasted breath.

Instead, I shrug out of my jacket, wincing as dried blood makes the fabric stick to my side.

"The medical kit's in the side pocket of my bag," I say, easing myself down onto the edge of the bed.

She retrieves the kit and returns to stand between my knees. "Shirt off."

Something flickers in her eyes as I peel the blood-soaked t-shirt over my head—something that has nothing to do with assessing me medically.

She kneels to examine the wound, her touch gentle as she cleans away the blood with antiseptic wipes.

"Just a graze," she confirms, her breath warm against my bare skin. "But deep enough to need stitches."

"You know how to do that?" I ask, though I already suspect the answer.

A wry smile touches her lips. "Harvard pre-med, remember? Plus a lifetime in cartel territory. I've stitched up worse than this."

She works in silence, her fingers steady and precise as she preps the wound, administers a local anesthetic, and begins to stitch.

I watch her face rather than her hands—the intense concentration, the slight furrow between her brows, the way she bites her lower lip when she's focused.

"You would have made a good doctor," I say, surprising myself with the observation.

Her hands pause for just a moment before continuing. "Maybe. In another life." There's no bitterness in her voice now, just accepting the way life has worked out for her. "Hold still. Three more stitches."

The final stitches go in quickly, followed by antibiotic ointment and a clean bandage.

Her work is good, efficient—better than many field medics I've seen.

"Thanks," I say as she packs away the supplies.

She nods, washing the blood from her hands in the bathroom sink. "We should get food, then rest. You need to replace the fluids you lost."

She turns from the sink, and our eyes lock across the small room.

Something intense passes between us, something I've been trying to ignore since the moment I first saw her.

For a heartbeat, we're frozen in place, the air suddenly thick.

I'm not sure who moves first, but suddenly she's right in front of me, her hands on my chest, my hands at her waist.

It's like gravity, inevitable and overpowering.

Her eyes search mine, a question in them I answer by slowly lowering my head.

The first brush of her lips against mine is tentative, testing.

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