Page 163 of Dirty Hit
His mother is dead in a car somewhere.
His sister is being sent to a safe place.
Everything is ruined, raw, and bleeding.
I let my eyes close, the last thing I hear before the darkness pulls me under again is his voice, low and murderous, and weirdly gentle. He switches back to Russian, muttering things under his breath that I don’t understand, but somehow know, in my bones, are about me.
I fell in love with a sinner.
Right now, in this stupid, too-bright room, with pain in my side and my parents gone, I’m more sure than ever that I’d do it again.
Brendon
Dischargedayfeelsalittle like getting paroled, and a lot like being adopted by a very large, very bossy prison warden.
The doctor runs through the instructions in that calm, practiced voice they teach in med school, and I try to pay attention, I really do—but it’s hard to focus when Dominic is a wall of tension pressed to my side, arms folded, jaw clenched, glaring at the clipboard like he can intimidate it into listing fewer restrictions.
“Daily dressing changes,” the doctor says, ticking things off with her pen. “Keep the wound dry for another forty-eight hours, then you can start with quick showers; no soaking. No lifting anything heavier than a gallon of milk for at least two weeks. No strenuous exercise for four to six weeks, no sports, no running. Listen to your body. If you feel dizzy, short of breath, or unusually tired, call us. Watch for signs of infection: fever, chills, increased pain, redness, discharge. Questions?”
“Define strenuous,” Dominic says immediately. “Because he thinks walking to the kitchen counts as cardio.”
I shoot him a glare. “I walk a normal amount. You just forget other people are not six-foot-four murder machines with endless stamina.”
The doctor’s mouth twitches. “Strenuous means anything that makes that incision pull,” she says. “You’ll know. Listen when it complains.”
“Great,” I mutter. “My side is going to nag me like my parents used to.”
There is a brief pause. I see Dominic stiffen slightly, as if the words hit him too.
“Your parents have not called,” the doctor says carefully, which is code for they are not coming. “Your partner has been here the whole time, though. He has the instructions and my number. I’m comfortable discharging you into his care.”
The wordpartnerhits my chest hard. I sneak a glance at Dom, and his expression does not change, but the muscle in his cheek jumps once.
“Cool,” I say, trying not to make it weird. “I promise I’ll be the most obedient outpatient you’ve ever had.”
She gives me a dry look that says she doesn’t believe it at all. “If your pain spikes, use the medication as prescribed, not more,” she adds. “You already have enough going on in your chart without adding an opioid dependency.”
“I’ll watch him,” Dominic says, hand closing gently around my shoulder. “He’s not going to do anything stupid.”
That’s funny, because I’m the one who got stabbed on his couch, but I let it slide because I do not have it in me to argue in a hospital gown. I don’t even argue about the fact that he paid my hospital bill, because I’m apparently a kept boy now.
They wheel me out in a chair despite my insistence I can walk, apparently due to legal policy. Dominic walks beside me,one hand on the chair’s back, shielding me from the world. People look, especially around him. Today, there’s a new edge; a few nurses smile and whisper about the hero quarterback who brought the TA in. I stare straight ahead, ignoring words like ‘victim,’ ‘mugging,’and ‘poor boy.’
He loads me into the passenger seat before I can argue, buckles the seatbelt himself when I fumble, then crouches to adjust it carefully around the bandage, his fingers firm and gentle. The whole time, he mutters under his breath in Russian. I’m too tired to ask if he is cursing me out or praying for me. So I just close my eyes and focus on the feeling of his hands making sure the strap doesn’t press too hard against my side.
“Pain level?” he asks, once he gets in on his side and starts the engine.
“Six,” I say. “It was a four, ten minutes ago. Congratulations, you made it worse.”
He snorts, eyes flicking toward me before he pulls out of the space. “That’s because you decided to stand up on your own like you weren’t just stabbed, Little Sin,” he says. “We’re keeping it under four, or I’m turning around and abducting your doctor for a house call.”
“You can’t kidnap a doctor,” I say.
“Watch me,” he says, and I know he’s half serious, which makes my stomach both flip and settle at the same time.
I assume we are going to my apartment. Jericho needs feeding, my plants probably need watering, and my emails need checking. My assumptions apparently mean nothing, because Dominic takes the turn out of town that leads toward the lake and the cottage instead, hands loose on the wheel, but jaw clenched.
“Dom,” I say slowly. “This isn’t the way to my place.”
