Revenge.
I'm familiar with it. You have to be when you're the firstborn son of a notorious mafia leader. Death and vengeance have been the very foundations of my life.
So who in their fucking mind would be stupid enough to cross me?
My brother and...
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He got shot. He freaking got shot.
He's obviously in pain. He can't hide the sheen of sweat on his forehead, laboured breathing, or constant winces. But he's choosing now of all times to grow a personality and make jokes instead of taking this as seriously as it is.
Me? I'm a mess. Internally. I'm freaking the hell out, probably enough for both of us. I'm well aware how screwed that makes me. I knew it the moment he walked inside the house stumbling and in pain. My chest had locked tight with so much worry it caught me off guard. Since when do I care so much to begin with?
Maybe he was right to call me out on not being able to handle our sex. I'd admittedly been taking some much needed distance to try and get myself sorted. I thought a couple of days of clarity might do the trick but now I'm thinking there's no going back.
For the first time since I married my husband, I don't think I hate him anymore. Not entirely anyway.
So, yeah. Really freaking screwed.
I can't get carried away thinking about that. I redirect my focus to the task in front of me, opening up the large first aid kit I keep with me at all times. I take out everything I'll need and place it on my bed in order of use. Knox sits across from me on the edge of the bed. I can feel his stare on me but I refuse to make eye contact. This is already nerve-wracking enough. He clearly has zero faith in my abilities and the last thing I want to do is prove him right.
"Shirt off," I tell him in the most neutral tone I can muster.
He doesn't say anything, and for that I'm grateful, but I do catch a flash of amusement in his eyes. Ass. I wait patiently with a puckered mouth while he strips as best as he can using one arm, careful not to move the other.
His bare torso is distracting. Now that I've felt it plastered to my own body, now that I know what it feels like rubbing against my own skin when he moves in and out of me, I can't help that my mind immediately goes there when I see him half-naked. It's only been three days since he last fucked me but I feel like it's been much longer. It's embarrassing how quickly I became addicted to his touch and all the sinful and wicked ways he used it on me.
"Problem?" He asks in a low drawl.
"The bullet living in your bicep," I throw back sweetly. His jaw clenches like he's suppressing a smile and he looks away from me, staring at the wall ahead.
God, I'm nervous. I've never removed bullets as a nurse. I've encountered GSW's before but the extent of my involvement has always been to assess and prepare charts for the surgeon on call. I've already checked Knox's arm for signs of bruising or infection. His breathing seems okay too. But actually removing the bullet? That's a different story. There are a million factors to consider here and it's nowhere near as easy as I made it sound when I said I'd remove it.
"This seems like a clean shot." I gingerly touch the area of penetration now that I have gloves on. "Medical equipment is your best chance to confirm if the bullet isn't hitting any major vessels. I can check with my fingers but I would feel better with access to the right equipment."
