“Decaf,” I tell him, handing over the cup of coffee with just a dash of cream.
“What’s the point of decaf coffee?” he grumbles, but he takes the cup. He sets it aside without taking a drink, so I sip mine to reassure him. I feel like shit that he honestly thinks I’d poison him.
“The point is, I don’t want to give you anything that’s going to make you bleed more,” I say, setting my cup down and sitting beside him. I touch his bicep below the wound in his shoulder. “You know that’s not going to stop bleeding until you stitch it up.”
He shrugs. “It might take longer, but eventually it’ll heal.”
“You don’t know how to sew it up, do you?”
“I’m righthanded,” he says, flexing the hand on the side of his wounded shoulder.
I roll my eyes. “So stop being a stubborn ass and let me help you.”
King studies me for a minute, until I’m squirming with discomfort and wishing I hadn’t said anything about his arm at all.
“Why would you do that?” he asks after what feels like an eternity.
I sigh. “Because you’re hurt, and I’m a very nice person.”
King looks at me for another long moment, like he’s trying to figure me out. “You’re going to drop some poison into my blood while you stitch me up, aren’t you?”
“Don’t give me ideas,” I say lightly.
I pick up his cup, though, taking a drink from that one in case he thinks I only poisoned his. Then I wash up and grab my surgical kit. I want to tell him the truth, but he’s so angry. And I don’t know what he does when he’s angry. There’s ammunition in the truth—that I can’t stand to see anyone hurting, that I’m softer than anyone in this business should be, that I respect him and all the men who do the jobs that have to be done every day.
King watches dubiously while I open my bag and spread out my instruments. “Why do you have that?”
“Oh, I used to stitch up my dad and his guys all the time,” I say with a shrug. “I mean, we have a doctor on the payroll. I’m not that good. But I can do little stuff.” While I talk, I set a towel on the bed and settle onto my knees beside him. When I pull off the bandage on his shoulder, he doesn’t react outwardly. But when I start to clean the wound with alcohol, I see the muscle in his jaw tense as he clenches his teeth. He’s human, after all.
“That’s why you offered, isn’t it?” he asks, staring straight ahead with a stone face. “You know it hurts like a son of a bitch.”
“I don’t hate you,” I say. “I thought you knew that.”
“Since when?” he asks through gritted teeth.
“Since our honeymoon,” I say. “I know it wasn’t the honeymoon most people have, but it wasn’t all bad, was it?”
He lets out a little snort of breath.
“Okay, maybe it was all bad for you,” I say. “But I thought you knew that I didn’t hate you after that. You were really cool about the whole thing.”
This time, I get a whole grunt in response.
“Maybe cool is the wrong word,” I concede. “My point is, even though you weren’t happy about it, you helped me when I needed it. So let me help you now.”
He looks away. “I didn’t help you,” he mutters.
“You’re wrong,” I say. “You might not know it, but I do. And I’m sorry I haven’t shown it this week. I just… I was sure you’d try to make me into something I’m not. I know what mafia wives have to put up with. So I was making sure you knew I wasn’t giving up my friends or my life. But I’ll do more around here. I live here, too.”
“I don’t expect you to be the maid,” he says, watching me run the thread through his skin.
“I know,” I say. “But I can hire one.”
“I thought you didn’t know how.”
“I’m sure I can figure it out,” I say, tying off the ends of the thread and sitting back. “All fixed up.”
“Yeah,” he says, still glowering at the window. “Thanks.”