Page 36 of Afraid to Hope

“Iodine. Get a field dressing ready.” He nodded to the smaller first aid kit and extended his hand. “Where did you pull that from?”

Natasha passed him the knife and bandages. “Vanity in your—in the guest bathroom,” she said, correcting herself and answering his surprised expression. Her eyes flickered to Rafiq. “My grandparents were rather meticulous about things like this after experiencing World War II. And I had a habit of getting into situations where I needed minor medical attention.”

“Really?” He smiled at her, heat flashing in his expression despite the fact that a man lay bleeding profusely between them. “I see there’s still much more to discover about you and your family.”

Rafiq shuddered, dragging Bane’s attention away abruptly. “Oh, no you don’t. Stay with us, man. I’m cutting your shirt off, Rafiq. Remain still.”

No response.

Natasha’s voice rose in alarm. “Bane, is he? Is h—”

“Be ready to move if he moves.” Bane studied Rafiq, then released the blade. Its deadly edge sliced through the shirt like butter.

Rafiq’s chest was covered in blood.

“Oh my god.” Natasha pulled sterile gauze from a packet and dabbed gently. “I don’t see anything on his torso.”

“Me either.” Bane slipped his knife through the right sleeve, which was soaked with blood. He pulled the drenched fabric to the side. “Give me some of that.” He nodded toward the gauze. “Rafiq?”

Still no response.

“He’s out cold. Shot twice. Muscle in his upper arm,” he said, propping Rafiq up enough to survey his arm. He continued his cursory examination. “Missed the bone. Through and through, back to front. Appears pretty clean. We can address that.” Blood coated Bane’s glove. “Uh-oh. Not good.” Bubbling blood from Rafiq’s inside upper arm began to spit. “He’s losing a lot of blood. I need to get a better look.”

He glanced around the kitchen, clearly searching for something, and lowered Rafiq to the floor again, elevating the man’s arm above his head. “Come here. Take my place. We’ve gotta keep him elevated and get him stabilized.”

She did as he commanded without thinking, kneeling next to him, her EMT training kicking in. Bane draped several of the towels over her thighs and rotated Rafiq’s damaged arm. He guided Natasha’s hand underneath the upper arm and pressed her fingers firmly over Rafiq’s pulse point. The bleeding did not slow. Crimson oozed between her gloved fingers.

“More pressure. Give me your other hand too.” He placed it over her other one. “Press more firmly. You’re doing great. I know this is an awkward position.” The bleeding slowed immediately. Bane nodded and covered Rafiq’s wrist with two fingers. “Good. He’s got a pulse. Can you keep the pressure on?” he asked, his expression intense.

Her heart hammered in her chest, her body warring between keeping Rafiq from dying and Bane’s touch. “Yes.”

“Good. Stay on it, just like that. Do not let up. I’ll be right back.” He took off his gloves, tossed them onto Rafiq’s bloody shirt remnants, and left.

Natasha jockeyed to get more comfortable, continuing to apply the correct amount of pressure to slow the bleeding. The blood no longer spit but seeped out with each of Rafiq’s heartbeats. That red color that she had always been so passionate about leached between her latex-covered fingers, coating her gloves. Slick. Sticky. A metallic smell like hundreds of pennies overwhelmed her. She applied more pressure, praying that their care would give Rafiq the chance he needed to come out whole. Bullet wounds were tricky. This was the first time she had needed to rely on her EMT training, and it was her first encounter with gunshot wounds.

Bane returned, slid another pair of gloves on, and poured some of the boiling water over the flashlight he held before kneeling beside her. His head almost touched hers, his scent enveloping her. She inhaled deeply, his nearness throwing her off-balance.

“You okay?” He squinted and assessed her. His eyes—normally a kaleidoscope of brown, green, gold, and red—had evolved to a soft cognac brown infused with brilliant green.

Her answer was breathy as she found herself lost in his beautiful eyes. “Yes.”

His eyes glinted. “Hmm.” Bane broke eye contact and focused on what he held—a small tactical flashlight and his webbed belt. “The flashlight is waterproof. Boiling water is our best option for combating germs.” He handed her the flashlight and worked the belt under Rafiq’s arm, above where Natasha applied pressure. Bane pulled the belt through its buckle, tightening slowly. “Okay, let up.”

She sat back on her haunches and released the pressure. Immediately blood sprayed out. Natasha turned her head and regrouped.

“Yeah. It’s unnerving to see someone’s life force spraying out of them. First time?” Bane tightened the belt slightly more.

“Yes, but I have basic EMT training. INTERPOL required it before my initial assignment.”

“I know, but the real thing is much different. More immediate. You’re doing great, by the way. Coming across like you’re on autopilot.”

Natasha gave him a tight smile.

“We make a good team. He’s out cold. I need to talk to you about something else. I’m a fan of Clara’s.”

Natasha’s gray eyes held his. “And?”

“She congratulated me.”

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