“Good job,” he says, his face contorted in pain. Even if I was gentle, I know that must have hurt. “Most people would have scuttled off in fear.”
“Grew up with four brothers, remember? I've seen worse than a little blood.”
With his shirt now off, I have a good look at his wound, a harrowing slice across his left shoulder. I suck in air from the shock itself, and my gaze meets his.
“This is a bullet graze,” I say, not a question.
“Yes.” His eyes search mine.
“Were you going to mention that someone shot at you, or was I supposed to guess?”
“I thought it was obvious,” he shrugs.
My eyes widen. “Are you serious? You thought it was obvious I’d know you meant bullet when you said graze?”
“I don’t know,” he says, and at the look of exasperation on my face, his mouth twitches.
I pull out some cotton and antiseptic and point the antiseptic in his face before I uncap it. “Not funny!” I say with a straight face.
“This will sting,” I warn before applying the antiseptic.
He doesn't flinch, but I catch the slight flaring of his nostrils and the momentary stiffening of his body. I work carefully to clean away dried blood, and finally, when the wound is clear, I’m able to assess the true extent of the damage. The bullet cut through the skin and a little of the surface muscle, but I don’t see it causing any long-term hassles. Half an inch difference could have resulted in an entirely different ending. The thought makes my stomach twist, and for a moment, I stop to send a prayer to the universe for giving Agafon sheer good luck.
“Beth?” he whispers, and when I look back at him, his gray eyes are warm, harrowed because I’m harrowed. I shake off my fear and, without thinking, reach out and cup his face in my hand. He leans into it gently, receptive.
“You need stitches,” I say softly. “Professional ones.”
“No hospitals.” His voice is flat and non-negotiable.
“Agafon—”
“No hospitals, Lilibeth. Please.” There’s something in the way he says please, as though he’s so tired, as though he needs me to find a way to make this easier.
And right about now, I’ll do anything to make him feel more at peace.
I sigh and examine the medical kit's contents. “Lucky for you, I know basic field stitching. Another perk of growing up as an Orlov. Hold still.”
His eyebrows lift in surprise. My hands tremble slightly as I thread the curved needle, but I steady myself as I position it against his skin.
“This will hurt,” I say.
“It already hurts,” he answers simply.
I work in silence and take longer than I know a medical professional would, but I want to be careful with each stitch. I know this wound will heal, but it will scar, and the neater the stitches I place, the less scarring there’ll be. Agafon sits unnaturally still while I work, as though getting these stitches is as easy as taking a bath.
“Are you okay?” I ask every few minutes. “Tell me if it hurts.”
“I can hardly feel a thing,” he tells me. “I’m fine.”
Hecan’tbe, I know that. But he’s putting on a brave face for me, so I don’t get scared. I appreciate it, I truly do, but I feel scared the whole time anyway.
“Almost done,” I murmur, tying off the last stitch.
“Thank you, it’s perfect.”
“It'll scar.”
“One more won't matter.”
