I stand there for a moment in awe of how kinetic and wild he feels, even in sleep. It’s amazing to me that he even fits inside the four corners of a bed. He blows me away. I want to fight for his wildness. I want to fight forhim.
I nab my phone, get a quick photo, and tuck it away.
I shred his shirt with the scissors I picked up, baring his massive chest—dirty, bloody, sweaty. It’s the wound I’m worried about. I remove the makeshift bandage I created and start cleaning it with the rubbing alcohol from the Holiday.
Kiro was stabbed with something in the shoulder. It’s not as bad as I thought. Back in my field nursing days, I worked on a lot of wounds like this. Assisted with a lot worse.
Not infected. He’ll be okay, though he won’t be enjoying jumping jacks anytime soon. How did he even carry me?
He’s shaking, but I think that’s him detoxing. He’s coming off of a lot of heavy psychotropic drugs.
The bite of rubbing alcohol rouses him. I pull away, wary, but he just moves his arms as if to make sure he’s free.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m here to help you.”
He squints at me.
“You probably feel how I look,” I say. “Or is it the other way around?” It feels good to talk to him the way I used to. Like something regular in this insane situation. Not that the previous situation was all that sane.
He swallows. Eying me. I wonder how fucked up he feels.
I grab a fresh cloth and approach him slowly, gently. “Didn’t I tell you I’d stay?”
He’s forming a word. “Where…”
I kneel to be level with his golden eyes, feeling this surge of fondness for him. I can’t help it.
Stay objective.
“You’re safe. Hiding. You’re safe with me.” I offer him water, and he drinks greedily, massive throat undulating.
I shake out three aspirins for him. He bats them away.
“I’m not trying to drug you, okay? You were shot.” Does he even understand me?
“I’m going to sew this thing up. Are you with me?” He opens his eyes again. I touch his cheek, stroking gently to show I’m not a threat. He closes his eyes, seeming to enjoy my touch.
Stay objective,I say, even as I fall into his beauty, this trembling, fucked-up, feral lost boy who’s eight, nine, maybe even ten years younger than I am. I stroke his cheek again, and he seems to relax more deeply. And I wish I didn’t have to stitch him and hurt him. I wish I had all the money in the world to help him and get him free without having to write a story about him in exchange. But this deal with the publicity devil is part of how he keeps safe. He doesn’t know it, but I do.
Murray will want this story ASAP—Savage Adonis in all his hot savagery. Kiro deserves better than that. He deserves a beautiful, thoughtful piece.
Kiro has been treated as something less than human by the system and the media, but when I look at him, I see a man who is achingly, intensely human.
He’s scary and violent, yes. But what choice did he have? Hit men were after him. He didn’t kill the people when I told him not to. Hell, he didn’t kill Donny during his first few escape attempts—that shows real restraint, if not downright sainthood.
And he did carry me off in spite of my asking him to put me down, but it felt…protective. Which would go along with what I know about him. Kiro gave up his chance to escape from a living hell to help me when Donny attacked, after all. That shows a lot. It shows that Kiro’s force of will and sense of right and wrong didn’t crumble even in the most degrading, demoralizing circumstances.
So that’s where I’m heading with my fucking piece.
Murray can fuck himself if he doesn’t like it.
I don’t know what happens once I get Kiro to his home. Does Murray imagine sending camera crews at that point? I can make sure Kiro can’t be found by Murray, but what about these hit men?
I can’t fight for Kiro if I don’t know the full story.
I look down at Kiro. It might be best to get away from him before the sedatives work themselves out of his bloodstream—I know that for a fact. But all I want to do is to curl myself around him and hold him.
“It’s going to hurt, but this is how I help you.”