When she comes back into the room, she has yoga pants on and a tank top. The tank top allows me to be able to see and work on the wound, and I’m happy that I won’t have to be so close to her with her wearing nothing but a bra.
“Maybe I should go to the ER,” she suggests, looking down at the wound.
“It’s just stitches. I’ve dealt with worse.”
“Are you a doctor or something?” she asks, as she comes and sits down on the edge of the bed.
I grab a first aid box I have in my room with all the tools I need for stitches, for bullet extractions, and for any other minor surgeries I may have to conduct. “I’m not a doctor but have spent all my life learning how to do much of what they can.” I begin cleaning the area and preparing for stitches. “I can’t perform open heart surgery or anything,” I say in a lame attempt to lighten the mood, “But I can sew up a shoulder just fine.” I look up at her and notice how she studies my every move. “And if you’re really lucky, I may be able to prevent this from scarring. No promises though.”
“This is going to hurt, isn’t it?”
“No worse than what you’ve already endured. And from the looks of JV, you are one badass woman. I find it hard to believe a few stitches are going to knock you down.”
I don’t wait to get started and instantly begin, hoping she’s too distracted by our chatter to not tense up or flinch too much. I’m pleasantly surprised that she remains perfectly still and doesn’t so much as whimper as I sew her up. I’ve stitched up ruthless killers who have hissed and groaned, but not Rowan.
Yes, she’s a badass woman.
“Why do you do this?” she asks, still watching me sew her up.
“So you don’t bleed to death.”
“Not this. I’m talking about what you are doing with JV. Why would you help me?”
“It’s my job.”
“But why? Why would this be your job?”
I tie off the last stitch and connect eyes with her. “All done,” I say rather than answer the question. “Let me see your hand.”
She extends her palm, but I can feel her stare examining me. Watching me. Studying me.
“I think we can get away with just butterfly bandaging your palm. I don’t think it’s deep enough to need stitches. Hands heal fast,” I say, ignoring the way her intense look is making me feel uneasy.
I wrap up her hand, and then put a bandage on her shoulder, pleased with my work.
“Thank you,” she says.
Not liking how quickly my heart rate seems to be speeding up, I stand up and put some distance between us. I walk over to my safe and key in the code to open it. Pulling out another loaded gun, I place it on the nightstand.
“I don’t expect you to have to use it, but it’s here just in case.”
Her eyes widen as she looks at it and then she returns them to me. “Are you leaving me here?”
I nod. “I need to go deal with the body. You get some rest and wait for Dex and Katja to get here.” I pull down the bedding and help her get into my bed. “Under no circumstances are you to open the door for anyone but them or me.”
“I don’t feel comfortable being here alone.”
I sigh. “There’s going to be a lot you aren’t going to be comfortable with in the coming days. But you’re going to have to trust me and do as I say. And right now, I’m telling you to lay down, close your eyes, and rest. Your body just went through hell, and I need you to get back into fighting shape for what’s to come.”
When she lays her head on the pillow and I cover her up, I then walk toward an armoire in the far corner of the room. Most people would have it full of clothing. Not me. I have all the tools of my trade in there. Pulling out my saws, my knives, my large garbage bags, my modified hazmat suit, my—
“Holy shit,” I hear Rowan say. “You aren’t really going to… oh my god.”
I look over my shoulder at her sitting up in stunned disbelief but realize there isn’t much to say in my defense. Yes, I’m really going to.
I quickly grab everything I need and head to the door. “Do not leave this room. You don’t want to risk anyone on the thirteenth floor seeing you. You’ll stand out like a sore thumb and the last thing we need is people talking about Rowan Worthington.” I stare at her with a firmness to make it clear just how serious I am. “Promise me.”
“I promise,” she says on a yawn.