Page 76 of Nine Months to Bear
“You have to eat it for it to help you,” she scolds playfully. “Go on then. Have a bite.”
I’d laugh if I could. Since I’m not capable of that particular emotion right now, I take a bite instead. The cookie is soft and warm, but I don’t even taste it.
The old woman continues undeterred. A monologue of grandmotherly things: her garden, tomorrow’s weather, and a television show she’s been watching—all as if I didn’t just dodge death by inches. Like her grandson didn’t dump me in her lap and then disappear to God only knows where.
It feels like I’ve stepped into an alternate universe. Is this real? Am I dreaming?
“Does this happen a lot?” I finally blurt. “Because Stefan seems alarmingly calm about it all.”
“Calm?” She laughs outright. “That man is more on edge than I’ve ever seen him. He’s been that way ever since he met you.”
My heart stutters. I don’t have time to unpack that statement, though, because just then, Stefan returns, his body filling the tiny doorway.
It’s beyond bizarre that I feel myself unclench an extra degree now that he’s back. He’s thecauseof all the danger in my life. How on earth does my body seem to think he’s the solution for it, too?
“Has anyone been by, Babushka? Have you noticed anything unusual?” His stance is rigid, eyes never settling in one spot for long.
“Yes, Stefushka, I invited the entire Italian mob for tea yesterday,” she replies dryly. “We discussed your security protocols over blini. Nice fellows.”
Stefan doesn’t smile. “This isn’t a joke.”
“And I’m not a child.” Her gaze catches on the dark stain spreading across his shirt. She tips her chin towards the wound. “You should be more worried about yourself. Get to the upstairs bathroom. I have a first aid kit under the sink. Go, go. Both of you.”
She shoos us out. I’m still in automaton mode, so I follow unthinkingly.
The upstairs hallway is narrow, with faded wallpaper and creaking floorboards. Stefan leads us to a small bathroom at the end of the corridor. When he flicks on the light, I’m struck by the banal normalcy of it—blue towels, a shower curtain with sailboats, a porcelain soap dish shaped like a seashell.
Then he turns to face me and the bloodstain spreading across his shirt actually focuses my thoughts for the first time all morning.
ThisI can handle.
“Sit,” I instruct, doctor mode activating.
He hesitates. For a man who radiates control, surrendering to my care seems to cost him something.
“I’ve had worse,” he rumbles, but obediently perches on the edge of the bathtub.
I find the first aid kit exactly where his grandmother said it would be. The contents tell their own story—surgical-grade sutures, hemostatic gauze, injectable antibiotics.
This isn’t a kit assembled for little boys who’ve scraped their knees.
This is a kit for people who expect violence.
“Take off your shirt.”
His lips quirk in a half-smile. “Most people would buy me dinner first.”
“I’ve already seen you naked,” I retort, then flush at the memory. “Just… please. I really do not have the mental capacity to banter with you at the moment.”
For a second, I think he’ll give me a hard time, which is the last thing on earth I’m capable of handling right now. But in the end, he complies.
He undoes the buttons and shrugs out of his shirt, casting it aside. He’s wearing a white tank top underneath, and as I watch, he grips the bottom hem with both hands and peels it over his head. It’s so effortlessly masculine, soVersace cologne commercial,that I almost forget why we’re here.
… until I see the wound.
Then I remember.
The bullet grazed his shoulder, leaving behind a three-inch furrow of angry, torn flesh. That’s the worst of it, but the rest isn’t much better.
