My head resting against his chest and my eyes closed, I whisper, “I don’t understand what’s happening.”
“You don’t have to. All you have to do is heal, malyutka. And that will take time.”
Hearing his nickname for me makes me teary again, but I sniffle and squeeze my eyes shut so the tears don’t come out.
I grimace in pain when he lowers me to the bed but don’t make a sound. He adjusts the pillow behind my head.
“I need to check your sutures. I’m going to pull your nightgown up.”
I don’t bother protesting. I know he won’t listen to a word I say. Besides, I don’t have the energy. Mal as my caregiver is just one more mindfuck my poor brain has to wrestle with. All my energy is going into not having a mental break with reality.
With gentle hands, he pulls up the sleep shirt and lightly probes around my belly while I wince and grit my teeth.
“There’s no sign of infection around the sutures,” he says quietly. “And your abdomen isn’t hard, which is good. I’ll change the dressing, then get you your meds.”
“Meds?”
“Pain medicine. Antibiotics.”
“Oh.”
“I need you to tell me right away if you develop pain or swelling in one of your arms or legs, if you have shortness of breath or feel dizzy, or if you have blood in your urine.”
I close my eyes and say weakly, “Oh, god.”
“Don’t despair yet. It gets worse. Even if you heal perfectly, you may experience PTSD. It’s a common side-effect of a gunshot wound. Nightmares, anxiety, jumpiness—”
“Got it,” I interrupt. “Even if I don’t end up being a mess, I’ll still probably be a mess.”
He stops his inspection of my stomach and looks at me. “You’re young and strong. Your chances are good.”
Something in the way he says those words makes me nervous. I inspect his face closely for any clues, but his expression is neutral.
Suspiciously neutral.
“Wait. I could still die, couldn’t I?”
“Yes. Sepsis isn’t uncommon for this type of wound. You could also develop blood clots, airway collapse, fistula formation, peritonitis, abscesses, and other life-threatening complications.”
At least he doesn’t sugar coat it. I have to give him credit for that.
I say faintly, “You’re just a ray of sunshine, aren’t you?”
“Also, with only one kidney, you can never drink alcohol again.”
I close my eyes and groan. “I think I’d rather be dead.”
“Look on the bright side.”
“There is no bright side!”
“Think of all the money you’ll save. And you’ll never have another hangover.”
He makes it sound so rational, I have to laugh. That causes more pain to rip through me, and the laughter quickly turns to groans.
Mal squeezes my hand. He murmurs, “Breathe through it. It’ll pass.”
I suck in deep, desperate breaths through my nose, squeezing his hand so hard, I’m probably crushing bones.
I don’t care. It’s his fault I’m in this predicament in the first place.
My eyes closed, I say, “My sister. Sloane. Does she know what’s happened to me?”
There’s a pause before he answers. “Yes.”
I sense miles of twisted story behind that, but he offers no further explanation.
“So she knows I’m alive? And with you?”
“Yes.”
I open my eyes and look at him. He’s kneeling beside the bed, leaning over me. My hand is still in his. “Aren’t you worried they’ll try to come get me?”
“If Declan O’Donnell sets foot in this country, it’s the last step he’ll ever take.”
He says it with such conviction, I understand not only that he’s already made arrangements for that to happen, but also that he won’t necessarily have to pull the trigger himself.
“You’ve got people watching him.”
He simply nods.
My voice comes out small. “Please don’t kill him.”
He shakes his head in frustration. “You keep asking me not to kill other people, but you’ve never asked me not to kill you.”
I think for a moment. “I’m pretty sure I have.”
“No. You haven’t. You just threatened to return from the dead to haunt me if I did.”
“I was like ninety percent certain all along that you weren’t going to kill me. Why are you glaring at me now?”