He was right to expect that from me. I didn't want to know who had shot him or why he'd been roaming through Seattle in the middle of the night or what kind of life left a man with that many scars.
I wanted to help him. It was the same way I'd wanted to help every other broken person I'd pulled from wreckage over the years.
After helping him to the couch, I walked to my bathroom and pulled out the first aid kit I kept under the sink.
When I returned, he was trying to work the bloodstained shirt off over his head.
"Let me." I dropped the first aid kit on the coffee table and knelt beside him.
The fabric peeled away from his skin with a wet sound that made my teeth clench. Underneath, his torso was a map of old violence—thin white lines across his ribs, a puckered scar below his left collarbone, and burn marks along his shoulder.
The fresh wound cut across his right side, just below the armpit. Deep, clean edges had been made by something sharper than a bullet. This wasn't the entry wound from the hospital—it was new. Someone had opened him up with surgical precision.
"They should be doing this in a hospital," I muttered, pulling on latex gloves.
He said nothing.
I opened a package of gauze and soaked it with saline solution. The antiseptic smell filled the space between us, sharp and clinical. When I pressed the gauze to his wound, he sucked in a breath but didn't flinch away.
Slowly wiping his skin clean with steady strokes, I worked from the outside as I'd been taught. His pulse hammered against my fingertips when I checked the carotid artery—fast but strong.
"Whoever did this knew what they were doing." I reached for the suture kit. "The angle, the depth. They were trying to finish what the bullet started."
"Yes."
His voice was flat, matter-of-fact, like we were discussing the weather instead of torture techniques.
I threaded the needle, testing the tension of the surgical thread between my fingers. The wound would need at least eight stitches, maybe ten. It was close work that would put my hands inches from his face.
"This is going to hurt."
"I know."
I positioned myself on the couch beside him, one knee braced against the cushions for stability. The smell of the hospital soap still clung to his skin, mixed with sweat and the metallic scent of blood.
The first stitch went in clean. His jaw tightened, but he kept perfectly still while I worked. His breathing stayed controlled and measured. This wasn't his first time.
His eyes met mine as I pulled the thread taut. Dark brown, almost black in the lamplight, with flecks of gold that I hadn't noticed in the ambulance.
I bent closer to tie off the stitch, my forearm brushing against his chest. His skin was warm, almost feverish, and his heart beat rapidly under the thin layer of muscle and bone.
Three more stitches. Four. Each one brought my hands closer to his face, until I was working with my wrist resting against his shoulder and my breath fogging the space between us.
He was dangerous. Had to be, with scars like that and a fresh blade wound. Someone wanted him dead badly enough to follow him to a hospital and finish what they'd started.
"There." I tied off the final stitch and sat back on my heels. "That should hold."
He flexed his shoulder experimentally, testing the pull of the sutures. "Thank you."
I stripped off the gloves and started packing up the first aid kit, suddenly aware of how close we were sitting. I watched how the lamplight caught the angles of his face and cast shadows across the hollow of his throat.
"You should rest. You've lost a lot of blood. How long since you left the hospital?"
"Six hours… or so." He made no move to lie down. He watched me with those dark eyes, like he was trying to memorize something.
I moved to help him stretch out on the couch, hands steadying his shoulders as he changed position. The stitches pulled tight against his skin, and he moved slowly, wincing.
"Easy." I guided him down until his head rested against the throw pillows.
