Page 42 of Loathe Me (Touch of Death 1)
I try and shoo him away. “I’m fine. Do we have any whiskey?” I need a drink right about now.
A small smile touches his lips. “Let me see this.” He tugs the jacket away from my shoulder. I don’t want to look at it, so I focus on him and the beautiful blue of his eyes. His brows pull together before his gaze snaps to mine. “I’m going to fix this, but I need to wait for the train to start moving. It’ll be safer. Okay?”
I nod. “Yep. I’m fine.”
“You said that already.”
“I did.”
My eyelids feel heavy, so I close them. Just for a moment. “Adelina, stay awake.” I blink my eyes open, and Sasha strokes the back of his knuckle over my cheek.
Something has changed, an infinitesimal shift in the balance of the world. As I stare into Sasha’s eyes, a thread snaps tight between us, a bond of sorts. Those razor-wire-topped walls that he keeps so firmly in place are down. Or maybe I’m just delirious from the pain. But he saved me. Again. Granted, he shot me to do it, but in our world, we make tough choices.
“You’re getting good at this hero shit,” I mumble.
He cocks a brow. “I wouldn’t have to if you kept that knife to yourself.”
“He was choking you.”
“I had it under control.”
I huff a laugh. “You did not.”
When I look at him, he’s staring at me through narrowed eyes. “Why would you throw your only weapon?”
“Why not?”
“But why?” He’s genuinely perplexed. It’s written into every hard line of his face.
Maybe it’s the blood loss or the near-death experience, but I tell him. Truthfully. “You’re the only person I can trust, anymore.” I don’t tell him that the idea of being without him terrified me.
He ducks his chin to his chest. “I lied to you. About your father.”
I swallow around the sudden lump in my throat. Just thinking about my father opens up that empty void inside me. “It wasn’t your place to tell me. It was Gabriella’s.”
Sasha says nothing, neither agreeing or arguing with me.
“Anyway, if you die…” I’ll have no one, not a soul in the world. “You can’t die.”
“I told you what to do if I didn’t come back.”
I snort. “We both know I wouldn’t survive two minutes without you.” I close my eyes again. I’m just so tired. I jolt as a sting reverberates over my cheek, permeated by a loud clap. My eyes fly open, and I glare at him. “Did you just hit me?”
“Don’t fall asleep.” The bed rocks beneath me, and it takes me a moment to realize we’re moving. He places something on my chest, wrapping my fingers firmly around it. I glance down at the enormous knife that looks ridiculous in my small hand. “Anyone comes in here, you cut them, okay?”
“Yes, sir.” I laugh, hysteria creeping into the edges of my consciousness.
He stands, hesitating as he glances down at me. A frown crumples his face, and his lips pressing together in indecision.
“Go.” I wave him off and nearly drop the knife.
He leaves, and the second he does, I’m fighting to stay conscious. I count in my head. I get to four hundred and five before the door slides open again. I hope to God it’s Sasha because there’s zero possibility I can defend myself at this point. He slides through the gap, and I release a sigh of relief.
“Malyshka,” he says, dropping to my side.
“What does that mean?” I ask, mainly because I want him to talk and take my mind off what I know he’s about to do.
A rare smirk pulls at the corner of his lips, and he picks up a towel from the floor. Wrapping his hand around the back of my neck, he pulls me into a sitting position to help me out of his jacket. I wince as I’m forced to move my arm.
“It means little girl.” He places the towel down on the bed and lays me on top of it.
“Well, that’s…derogatory,” I say through gritted teeth.
“It is what you are.”
“I’m offended.”
He shakes his head, and another smile makes an appearance. I must be hallucinating. The glug of liquid being poured from a bottle drags my attention away from his face to a cloth and the Jack Daniels. “That’s not really what I had in mind when I asked for whiskey.”
“It’s all I could find.” He puts the bottle down and tugs the strap of my tank to the side. “On three. One, two…” He slaps the wet cloth to my shoulder. “Three.” His free hand slides over my mouth.
The whiskey soaks into the gaping wound, and the pain is so intense, my vision wanes and then blacks out for a moment. A scream bubbles up my throat, but it’s drowned out by his palm.
“It’s okay. It’ll pass.”
