“I . . . what?” I asked. “I’m sorry, it’s been a long night. It sounded like you said he was skilled.”
“I heard the same,” Alejandro said. “What does that mean?”
“He didn’t hit any vital organs,” she explained, pointing to her own abdomen. “With three tries, it’s almost as if he was trying not to kill him.”
“That makes no sense,” Alejandro said. “But it sounds like good news?”
She nodded. “He’s lost blood, but he’s smart—or foolish—in that he banks some before each major trip outside the Badlands. There are matches within the town who are donating, too.” She reviewed her clipboard and sighed. “Someone less stubborn likely would’ve gone into hypovolemic shock by now, but fortunately, we’re prepared to do a transfusion. I have to observe the wounds for a bit, then once I’m sure there’s no infection, we’ll sew him up.”
“So he’s going to be okay?” I asked slowly.
“It’s never wise to make guarantees in this kind of situation, but the outlook is good. There’s some tissue and muscle damage, plus the sutures, so I’ll need him to stay in bed for a couple weeks or so.”
“He won’t like that,” Alejandro said. “He’s been confined to bed in the past—we all have for one reason or another, and I know him. He’s too impatient. You remember the last time he was shot.”
I frowned. “The last time? How many times . . .?”
“He was back in the field soon after,” Doctor Sosa answered. “Just remind him that if he makes this worse, it could result in surgery. Or an infection. Keep his wounds clean, make sure he takes his antibiotics, and keep him off his feet for as long as you can. He should be on the road to normal soon.”
Normal.
Did I want that?
My body answered for me. I didn’t even know how to handle the relief flooding me. I hadn’t prepared myself for good news. My limbs fatigued as exhaustion set in, but I held myself together. “Thank God,” I said. “No—thank you, Doctor.”
“Of course, but my work isn’t done yet.”
“Far from it,” Alejandro agreed, looking me over. “Would you take a look at Natalia next?”
“I feel fine,” I said to the doctor. “Cristiano needs you more.”
“My colleagues can handle him for the moment. Come. Sit,” she said, guiding me by the elbow toward the couch in front of the fireplace. “I see you have some battle wounds of your own. Headache?”
“A little, yes.”
“That’s to be expected. But your speech sounds fine, which is good. Let’s take a look.” She sat me down, unwrapped my bandages, and inspected the cuts. “They look worse than they are,” she observed. “Surface wounds, though the neck and this one on your cheek are likely to leave a scar.”
I glanced at Alejandro. “At least I’ll have proof I defended myself when Cristiano wakes up.”
He smiled. “He’ll be in need of some good news.”
After Doctor Sosa stitched me up, I curled up on the couch, watching them do the same to Cristiano.
* * *
Fingers sifted through my hair. I basked in the comforting touch. Cristiano. He was here. He was . . .
Injured.
I opened my eyes. Pilar perched on the edge of the sofa in Cristiano’s bedroom where I’d fallen asleep in front of the fireplace.
“How do you feel?” she asked, tucking me in with a throw blanket.
“Is Cristiano awake?” I asked, sitting up.
“Not yet.”
I glanced over at him. The room had emptied out. Only the heart rate monitor’s steady beep indicated any life.
Pilar glanced at the bedroom’s closed door and whispered, “We could go, you know.”
I rubbed the remnants of my headache from my left temple. “What?”
“I . . . about what Jaz said in the panic room . . .” She moved her loose ponytail over one shoulder and curled the ends around her hand. “I know Cristiano is supposed to recover, but anything could happen. You and I could be in serious trouble if he doesn’t. Or even if he does. We could run. Now. Before he wakes up.”
Had Pilar been paying attention at all? “Nobody runs from Cristiano,” I said. “Especially me. If that were an option, I would’ve tried weeks ago.”
“It’s probably the last thing you want to think about right now, but this may be our only chance. He’s unconscious. Two of his best men are missing. And the others are distracted looking for them.” She gripped one edge of my blanket. “We can go to your father and Barto. Barto will help us, I know he will.”
“Cristiano is as strong as he looks.” I shook my head, looking her in the eye. “When he wakes up, and I’m not here, he’ll come after me.”
With her shirt sleeve, she wiped sweat from her temple. “You could . . . you could kill him.” She winced and rushed out, “We could find a way—poison, overdose, smothering him in his sleep—and escape before they know it was us.”