Page 129 of Toxic Salvation
“You’re at war!” The crack in her voice is the first sign of her inner turmoil. “You can’t just walk into situations hoping for the best. You have responsibilities now.”
I wince as she applies antiseptic to the wound. For someone who claims to love me, she’s not being very careful about causing pain.
“Easy there, Doc. That arm is still attached to the rest of me.”
“Let me guess—you tried to play hero and ended up with this wound?”
“These things happen in my line of work.”
“Well, they shouldn’t!” She throws the bloody gauze into the trash. “We’re having a baby in three months. You can’t keep taking these kinds of risks.”
“We’ve discussed this. I have to lead from the front. I can’t ask my men to do anything I wouldn’t do myself.”
She turns away from me, but not before I catch the shine of tears in her eyes.
“Hey.” I reach for her hand. “I was careful tonight. More careful than I’ve ever been in a firefight. That’s because of you.”
“And yet you still got shot.”
“It’s a superficial wound. And if I hadn’t taken that bullet, Osip would be dead right now.”
She freezes. “You took a bullet meant for someone else?”
“I knew it wouldn’t be fatal.”
“Youknew?!”Her voice climbs an octave. “Did you have a conversation with the bullet? Make some kind of deal?”
“Vesper—”
“You’re going to need to stay very still while I suture this.” She picks up the needle, her hands steady despite her obvious emotion. “Do you want local anesthetic?”
“You’re the only anesthetic I need.”
She gives me a look of pure irritation. “Stop trying to make this romantic. A woman having to patch up her boyfriend’s gunshot wound is not romantic.”
“This is my life,” I say quietly. “This is what you signed up for when you chose to be with me.”
“I know that.” Her voice is small now, the anger bleeding out of it. “But knowing something intellectually and living it are two different things.”
I catch her hand, forcing her to look at me. “I’m not going to die on you. Not now, not ever.”
“You can’t promise that.” Her chin starts to tremble. “We have fake passports ready for our friends, Kovan. That’s not normal.”
“Being prepared doesn’t mean we’re expecting the worst.”
She leans against my good shoulder and starts to cry—quiet, desperate sobs that wreck me completely. “You scared me,” she whispers.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“I can’t do this without you. I can’t raise our children alone.”
“You won’t have to.” I stroke her hair with my good hand. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
It’s a lie, of course. In my world, promises about staying alive are just pretty words. But she needs to hear it, and I need to say it.
