Page 96 of Sacrifice
"All done," Mom finally announces. "Clean stitches, antibiotic shot, and these." She produces a bottle of pills. "Two every six hours, no arguments. And I mean rest. Real rest. NotEmil's version, where he pretends to rest while actually getting ready to do some club shit."
"I'll make sure," I promise.
"I know you will." She packs up her kit, then surprises me by kissing Emil's forehead. "You saved my daughter. That makes you family. But family doesn't get to die from preventable infections, understood?"
"Yes ma'am," he manages, voice rough.
After she leaves, I help him into clean clothes—soft sweatpants and nothing else, easier to monitor the wound.
He's shaking slightly, the aftermath of pain and fever.
"Water," I insist, helping him drink. "And these pills."
He takes them without arguing with me one bit, which tells me how bad he feels.
Normal Emil would negotiate, argue, insist he's fine with just whiskey and stubbornness.
"Stay," he mumbles, catching my hand as I move to dispose of the bloody bandages.
"Not going anywhere."
I curl up beside him, careful of his arm, and watch him breathe.
My dangerous man, brought low by microscopic invaders.
Somehow it makes him more human, more mine.
I trace the tattoos on his chest, following lines of ink over scars, memorizing every mark.
He sleeps for hours.
I doze fitfully, waking every time he shifts, checking his temperature.
It's dropping, slowly but steadily. The meds are working.
Around noon, voices in the main room pull me from half-sleep. My parents, talking quietly.
"—never seen her like this," Mom's saying. "She won’t leave his side."
"She loves him," Dad responds simply. "Real love. The way we were when we were kids."
"Think he'll be good to her?"
"He took a bullet for her. Killed seven men who threatened her. Yeah, I think he'll be good to her."
"Rati..."
"I know what you're thinking. The violence, the danger, the terrifying parts of the club life, but that's our world, Gwen. At least with Emil, she's got someone who'll burn the world down to keep her safe."
"Like you would for me?"
"In a heartbeat."
"Still. I worry. She's our baby girl."
"She's a grown woman who drives motorcycles through gunfights and holds loaded weapons on anyone who might threaten her man. Our baby girl became a warrior when we weren't looking."
Their voices fade as they move away.
