Page 78 of Sacrifice
His blood. Blood he spilled for me.
"Saga." Dad's there suddenly, pulling me into a hug that smells like leather and cigarettes. "You okay? You hurt?"
"No. Emil... he pushed me out of the way."
"I see that." Dad looks over at Emil with something like approval. "Thank you."
"Just did?—"
"What needed doing, yeah, I heard." Dad turns back to me. "You sure you're not hurt?"
"I'm fine. Scared. Angry. But fine."
"Good. Hold onto that anger. You'll need it." He pulls something from his cut, presses it into my hand. A small .38 revolver, cold and heavier than it looks. "Keep this on you. Always."
"Dad—"
"No arguments. You're a target now. Time to be armed." He shows me the safety, how to check if it's loaded. "Six shots. Make them count."
My hand closes around the gun, its weight both foreign and comforting. "Okay."
"That's my girl. Strong like your mother."
"Rati," Mom calls. "Need you to hold him while I stitch."
Dad moves to help, and I follow, unable to stay away.
Emil's jaw is clenched, sweat beading on his forehead, but he doesn't make a sound as Mom works.
The needle goes in and out, closing the wound with neat precision.
"Saga drove," he tells Dad between stitches. "Handled the bike like a pro."
"Adrenaline," I say. "Pure terror."
"Whatever it was, it worked." His good hand finds mine. "You saved us."
"You saved me first. That bullet was meant for me."
"And I'd take another." He squeezes my fingers. "As many as needed."
"Don't say that."
"It's true."
"All done," Mom announces, tying off the last stitch. "You'll need to keep it clean, change the bandages daily. No heavy lifting for at least a week."
"Define heavy lifting."
"Anything more than a beer bottle." She starts packing up her kit. "I mean it, Emil. You tear those stitches, you'll be dealing with me."
"Yes, ma'am."
She turns to me, expression softening. "You okay, baby?"
"No," I admit. "But I will be."
"Come here." She pulls me into a gentler hug than Dad's. "You did good tonight. Real good. But it's okay to be scared."
