Page 109 of Santa Daddy
“You pulled me out of that kitchen,” I said. “You covered me when the glass blew. Let me do this.”
He exhaled through his nose. A concession.
“Fine,” he said. “You be doctor.”
His skin was hot under my fingers as I cleaned away the worst of the blood. He flinched once, jaw tightening, but stayed still.
The cut was deep, but neat. Bullet had sliced, not dug.
“Hold this,” I said, shoving the towel back into his hand while I dug out antiseptic and gauze.
He obeyed, pressing cloth to his own shoulder while I opened packets with fingers that were finally starting to steady. Focus helped. Doing something helped.
“You would be dead if I left you there,” he said, voice low. “In that apartment. In that church. In that lot.”
“Maybe,” I said, dabbing disinfectant along the wound. He hissed as it bit. “Or maybe I’d be in my crappy studio eating ramen and watching Netflix instead of learning how to bandage bullet wounds. We’ll never know.”
I taped gauze in place. My hands knew what they were doing even if the rest of me was still shaking.
“I never wanted this for you,” he said.
I sat back on my heels, staring at the white square on his skin, the edges already pinking with blood.
“But you chose it anyway,” I said quietly. “You chose me. You chose to drag me into your war instead of letting me walk out of that lot and forget your face. Now I’m pregnant and people are shooting at your windows and trying to buy me out from under you.”
His jaw flexed.
We let the silence fill the tiny bathroom. Pipes hummed. Water dripped somewhere in another unit. Distant traffic filtered through thin walls and a bad window.
I could hear my own breathing. His. The ghost of gunfire still echoing in my bones.
“Look at me,” I said finally.
He did.
His eyes were tired. Hard. Something softer flickered behind them for a second before he forced it back down.
“It’s not just me anymore,” I said, fingers curling unconsciously over my stomach. “You know that, right?”
His gaze dropped to my hand. Stayed there.
When he looked back up, there was real fear in his eyes.
Not for himself.
For that tiny, unasked-for life tangled up in all of this.
“I will not let anything happen to you,” he said quietly. “To either of you.”
Something in my chest ached at the way he said it. Like it was a vow he’d carve into the world if he had to.
“Your own man just tried to sell us in a parking garage,” I reminded him, but softer now. “You’re bleeding in a bathroom that looks like a before picture. I’m scared, Konstantin. For me. For you. For this baby.”
He huffed a rough sound that might have been a laugh if the night had been different. “Not plan, kotyonok,” he said. “Oath.”
I swallowed. “Then make sure you keep it.”
He stood, testing his shoulder with a small rotation. The bandage held. His jaw clenched once, then he moved past the pain.
