I sigh and set the cup on the bedside table. “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.”
“The bullet’s still in my leg.”
“Sucks to be you.”
He grits his teeth and glares. “Can you help me or not?”
“I can,” I say, picking up my tea again. “I don’t know if I will. You’re not asking very nicely, King.”
His nostrils flare, and this time, I’m happy to see the hatred burning in his eyes. If he can drive me insane, it’s only fair that I do the same.
“Will you please get the fucking bullet out of my leg?” he asks.
“Hm, I suppose,” I say. “Since you said please.”
“Thank you,” he grits out, the words sounding more like a curse than gratitude.
I leave him seething while I wash up, throw on some clothes, and grab my surgical kit. I won’t tell him the whole truth. There’s ammunition in the truth—that not only do I want him to admire me, but that I can’t stand to see anyone hurting. I’m softer than anyone in this business should be, and more than that, I respect all the men who do the jobs that have to be done every day. Begrudgingly, even King.
He watches dubiously while I open my bag and spread out my instruments. “Why do you have that?”
“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.
Apparently 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.”
“Why else would I help my husband after he’d been shot?”
This time, I get a whole grunt in response.
“Look, I know I’m not a good wife,” I say. “I’m not so self-absorbed that I don’t know I’m hard to handle. And even though you’re a grade-A asshole, I’m sure you could be worse.”
He looks away. “How?”
“Oh no,” I say. “I’m not giving you any ideas.”
The corner of his mouth lifts the tiniest bit, and I think maybe he has a sense of humor buried somewhere deep down in there.
“I’m sorry you got shot,” I say. “I know you won’t believe me, but I really didn’t have anything to do with it.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“And I’m sorry I haven’t acted like we’re in this together. I know you hate being married to me as much as I do. It’s not just you, King. I never wanted this. To be a wife. 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 want it to be my house,ourhouse, not just yours. I’ll act like it from now on.”
“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, glowering at the window. “Thanks.”