Page 59 of Brutal Vows
Mamma and I share a stunned look before I pull myself together. “That bullet wound is serious.”
He glances down at his arm. There’s a ragged gash on the top outer part of his shoulder. It’s surrounded by bruised tissue darkening to purple, and it’s leaking blood.
He says, “It’s barely a scratch. He only clipped me.”
“A few inches lower and that bullet would’ve torn straight through your heart.”
“But it didn’t. Luck of the Irish, I suppose.”
I’m shocked by how casual he sounds. He could be discussing a hangnail for how nonchalant he seems.
“Have you been shot much?” asks Mamma.
“Depends on how you define ‘much.’”
“More than once.”
“Then, aye. This makes…” He pauses, thinking. “Five? Six?”
I’m astonished. “You’re not sure?”
He cocks a brow at me, smirking. “You seem impressed.”
“Only you would think that. It’s unfortunate your maker decided to finish you without giving you a brain. Sit.”
He winks at Mamma. “Look who’s barking orders now.”
She smiles knowingly. Then she rises and grasps her cane in one hand and her wineglass in the other. “I won’t stay for the gory part. I don’t have as strong a stomach at the sight of blood as Reyna does.”
A stomach I earned through years of cleaning my own blood from clothing, carpet, and my skin.
As Mamma hobbles out, Quinn watches me, his hazel eyes sharp as an eagle’s.
“You okay?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. Today has been…”
“All sorts of fun,” he says, chuckling.
“Be quiet now.”
I turn away and head to the sink, where I pull a bottle of hydrogen peroxide from the cabinet beneath. The first-aid kit is in a cabinet over the dishwasher, with clean gauze pads, antibiotic ointment, bandages, gloves, and tools inside.
I set the kit on the table, then stand over Quinn and pull on the latex gloves. As I gingerly clean and disinfect the wound, he drinks his wine and smolders as only he can, glancing up at me from time to time with hooded eyes.
I can tell he’s deep in thought, but I’ll be damned if I’ll ask him about it.
After a while, he says abruptly, “I still don’t want to see you after the wedding.”
“You made that clear earlier. I don’t want to see you, either. Your mood changes require medical intervention. Now shut up, or I’ll make your stitches look like they belong on Frankenstein’s monster.”
“You can just glue it.”
“With what? Elmer’s?”
“You don’t have any skin glue?”
“Do I look like a fucking pharmacy?”
