I ease my arm from around Cleo and get off the bed. “I’ll take it from here, Doc. It’ll make my wife more comfortable. Why don’t you go downstairs for a bit?”
He nods. “I’ll be back in fifteen to check on how you did.”
I take Doc’s spot and pick up the needle.
Cleo squeezes her eyes shut. “I feel like such a coward.”
“A lot of people are scared of needles.”
“You’re not. You’re not fazed by any of this, are you? You were so steady back at the restaurant.”
Is that what she thinks? I didn’t feel very steady when I saw her lying on the ground covered in her own blood.
I shake off that uncomfortable thought and refocus on the task at hand. “Take a deep breath.”
She scrunches up her face. “I think I’m going to throw up.”
“You’re not. This will only take a few seconds. Breathe, Cleo. I know you’re strong enough to handle this.”
She darts her hand out and wraps it over my knee before giving me the smallest of nods. “Do it.”
I bring the needle closer and pierce her skin. She winces but keeps breathing deeply like I told her to.
“Good girl,” I murmur. “Just keep breathing.”
The pace of her breathing speeds up. Her fingernails dig into my leg, but I don’t show any sign of pain. If she needs to use me as her stress ball, she’s more than welcome to do it.
I work as fast as I can to sew her up. It only takes me about ten minutes before I’m snipping the last thread.
I put everything away on the nightstand. “All done.”
Slowly, she peels her eyes open. “Thanks.”
What is she thanking me for? “I’m the one who got you into this mess.”
She stares at me and swallows. “It wasn’t your fault,” she says. “Don’t blame yourself. I forced your hand by showing up to dinner in that dress. If I hadn’t, we would have been driven by Sandro, and the hitmen probably wouldn’t have attacked if the restaurant had been filled with other patrons.”
I place my hand over hers and lace our fingers together. “I liked that dress.”
Surprise slips into her expression before it morphs into wry amusement. “Admit it, you’re glad it’s ruined.”
“Not at all.” She looked sexy as hell in it. “I’ll buy you a replacement, and next time, you’ll wear it in the privacy of our own home.” I lean closer. “Without anything beneath it.”
Finally, some color returns to her cheeks.
The door opens, and Doc reappears. “How are we doing?”
The simmering tension around us bursts like a balloon. I let go of her hand and stand.
“Take a look.”
He comes over to examine my work and then gives me a pleased nod. “Good. The concussion is my main concern. I’d like to keep an eye on her for the next few days.”
“Keep your phone close. If her condition worsens, I want you on hand.”
“Very well.” He leaves and shuts the door behind him.
I drag my fingers through my hair. I need a shower, a strong drink, and a good eight hours of sleep, but for now, I’ll settle on just the first. I unbutton my shirt and toss it in the hamper.
Cleo gasps. “You’re hurt too.”
I glance down. It takes me a moment to realize she’s talking about my arm. There’s a shallow wound where a bullet grazed me on my biceps, but I barely feel it. “It’s a scratch.”
“Let me see,” she demands stubbornly. “Come here, or I’m going to come over to you.”
“Stay still,” I growl.
It really is nothing. The only annoying thing is that the cut bisected one of my tattoos. A dark, hooded figure levitating over a bed of bones.
My father.
Cleo’s eyes roam the wound and the image beneath it. “Your tattoo is ruined.”
I shrug. “Adds character, don’t you think?”
“Do you need me to stitch you up?”
“I think you might cause more damage than the bullet.”
Her cheeks turn pink. “Rude. Well, at least get the doctor to do it.”
“It’s fine. I can do it myself in the bathroom.”
She purses her lips but doesn’t argue.
In the shower, the water runs pink for a while, but I know the cut isn’t anything to worry about. I press my palms against the wall of the shower and let the water run down my back.
She’s fine. The doctor will make sure she has a smooth recovery. There’s no logical reason to worry at this point.