Heaven's Crime (gxg) ✓

seven. we play a game

                How could I have forgotten she was shot?

                The moment she falls, I lunge towards her, fast enough only to stop her head from hitting the ground. As my hand curls over the back of her neck, feeling the hot skin there, I see a small tattoo behind her ear.

                But it's the sight of the blood, slowly spreading over the wound, that makes me gasp.

                Motherfucker. I'm not a doctor. I'm a hacker.

                But as I lift her onto the bed and peel off her leather jacket, I know I have no choice. I have to do something. And the hospital? Not an option. Not with these handcuffs, and not with the Mafia chasing her.

                Think. Think. 

                 Okay, I have an idea. A bloody insane idea, but it might work.

                 I rummage through my pockets for dental floss, because yes, a girl has to have floss. And then I search through Veah―Heaven's―body for a knife.

                 If anyone is going to have a deadly weapon on them, it's her. 

                 Her skin is feverishly hot beneath the thin layer of clothing, and her body is hard, taut with muscle. One blade. Two. I pull out seven little daggers before I find one that is precise, and then I reach over to the motel's minifridge.

                  Alcohol. 

                  I hold my breath as I open the bottle.

                  This is going to hurt like hell. 

                  I remember having had to pour alcohol over my wounds once. Cassie was shaking too hard, and she couldn't stand the sight of me in pain over what our stepfather did. So I gritted my teeth, and I endured the blistering, burning white-hot agony.

                  Veah's eyes flutter. Her breathing begins to rocket.

                  "Veah?" I try. "Veah . . . Heaven?"

                  She nods, wetting her lips with her tongue.

                  I try to focus. Focus, Kaya. 

                  "I'm going to pour alcohol on this wound," I say. "On the count of three."

                  She nods. Her shoulder blades are smooth, rippling beneath her flushed skin. The bullet wound is still bleeding, and I know this isn't good.

                  The bullet is still in there. There's no exit point.

                  I know I'm going to have to take it out, but still I hesitate.

                  "Three," I whisper, and I pour the alcohol.

                  She grits her teeth, clenching her jaw hard. The veins in her wrist tighten as her hands fist the bedsheets, and if I knew she wasn't in excruciating pain, she would look more like . . . 

                  Don't you dare think that, Kaya. 

                  "It's clean," I soothe, dabbing the wound with what I hope is a clean pillowcase. "I have to dig into the wound now . . . I have to find the bullet."

                  "Do it," she bites out, shivering.

                   I don't hesitate. The knife probes the wound, and I thank every single god that the bullet is only shallow. It slips out of the bloody entrance, sinking into the bed.