Chapter 7

"You let him die," he says quietly, "and I start with you, bella."

The weight of the gun pressed at my temple is terrifyingly real but so is the blood pooling beneath the man sprawled on the cold floor. The metallic tang of blood that clings to the air is slowly starting to curl into my nostrils. My stomach lurches as nausea slowly takes over and settles at the back of my throat. The dark stream of blood that had already seeped into the grout is slowly drying in jagged lines like spilled ink on paper.

I can't die. Not here and certainly not like this. 

With shallow heaving breaths my bare knees hit the cold concrete as if on instinct. Pain shoots up my spine on impact, but I barely register it. I can't think, I must act. 

My hands press against the man's chest, and in a matter of seconds they become slippery with a kind of warmth that shouldn't be outside of his body. I apply more pressure as I ignore the screaming voice in my head telling me I'm out of my depth here. That he's too far gone. That this is a fucking death sentence for the both of us. 

I glance up at the man who, just moments ago, had a gun searing into my temple. My fingers are trembling and slick with blood, but it's not the wound that has me shaking now. His weapon is sheathed, it's no longer pressing against my skull but somehow, now he's even more terrifying without it.

That distant look on his face is colder than the barrel ever was.

"I can't turn him," I manage to choke out as panic coils tightly around my throat. "Uh... did the bullet... did it go through?"

No answer.

The silence that follows isn't just silence; it's way too thick and stretches out for far too long. 

This fuck is surely taking his sweet time. 

My head spins as a cyclone of emotions--- fear, anger, desperation, disbelief--- all twist into one suffocating knot that claws at my throat. Every second drags like an eternity, and I feel myself slipping under, I am about to drown in the weight of the moment. 

"I asked if it went through!" My voice cracks as I look from him to the man dying beneath my hands.

"Yes." It's just one word. It's flat and controlled like it cost him nothing.

But it did. I see the quiet agony tucked in the corners of his jaw. He's bleeding somewhere too. Just not visibly. This man matters to him--- probably more than I realized.

"I need something to pack the wound," 

My bloody fingers claw at the blood-drenched fabric that is clinging to his chest. I yank hard and the cotton tears with a wet rip that echoes louder than it should. The crimson coloured fabric gives way to reveal the damage beneath. His pale skin beneath the smears of red, gleams dully under the flickering overhead light.

"Towels. Cloth. Anything!" I bark out the words now, they sound more of a command than plea but I don't care. If this man dies, so do I. 

The wound pulses beneath my hands, pumping out heat and life I can't seem to stop. My breath hitches, and I rip the shirt wider. I am desperate to get a better look, to find the bleeding, to do something but that's when I see it.

The faint trace of a tattoo on his forearm, peeking through smeared blood. It is not a lot but just enough to let the design show.

And my heart goes ice cold. That's the tattoo... the same one I saw on the man who killed my sister. Jason ran. Left me and my sister exposed, he abandoned us to the dangers we never saw coming. We were supposed to be on a fun getaway in Italy. A chance to escape but it turned out to be a nightmare.

And now, kneeling here with this man's blood soaking my hands, the past claws its way back in my mind.

Quiet vengeance burns deep inside me, but I push it to the side for now. I won't let this go but I can't avenge m sister if I get a bullet to the head.

The tearing of fabric jolts me to the present. The woman beside me is barefoot in a soft ivory dress that clings to her frame like it was made for a dinner party, not a battlefield. Her lips are part, but nothing comes out. Just a single tear spills down her cheek. Then another.

There's so much blood. Too much. I fight to keep my focus, to remember the steps drilled into me from trauma rotations. Airway. Breathing. Circulation. She hands me the stain fabric. 

"More," I snap as I press the fabric into the wound. Blood soaks through it and to my palms instantly.

She tears again and hand me another piece. 

"Hands here," I say. "Push. Hard. Don't stop unless I tell you."

She obeys, pressing down. Antonio cries out beneath us. I lean close, his chest is rising, but his breathing is way too shallow.

"You're gonna make it," I lie, pressing a hand to his cheek. Fuck, he's cold already. "But you gotta keep breathing, got it?"

His mouth twitches like he wants to laugh or cry. I'm not sure which.

The room tilts. Everything goes still except for the sound of Antonio choking on his own breath.

My arms are burning. The fabric's not enough and he's still bleeding too fast.

I look up again, he's still watching. The Ice King. The one who gave the order like a man asking for tea.

His face is unreadable. But his eyes are wildfire. They are controlled and dangerous like he's not testing me for sport.

And if I'm going to be useful to him--- if I'm going to survive him--- I have to be more than just brave. I have to be worth keeping alive.

I tie another strip around Antonio's waist and yank it tight with shaking hands. He lets out a low, broken sound that tears right through my spine.

"Keep pressing," I murmur to the sister. "You're doing good."

I barely acknowledge her nod as I look up at the man hovering over us. When I meet his eyes again, something flickers in them. Approval? Relief?

No. It's colder than that.

Assessment.

The bleeding miraculously slows, and Antonio's breathing has steadied just enough to keep the panic at bay--- but the floor beneath him is soaked crimson. I don't know if he'll live through the night. I just know he's not dead yet.

I sit back on my heels; my chest is heaving as I struggle to catch my breath. Blood is all the way up to my elbows but it's already beginning to dry at the edges. It reeks heavily of metal and death.

The Ice King steps forward, casting a long shadow over me. I feel it before I see it. When I look up, there\'s no pity in those dark eyes.

"You'll do," he says like I'm a tool. A test subject. A means to an end. Not the girl whose elbow-deep in blood just to keep his precious little friend from bleeding out on the white tile.

I scoff as he turns on his heel and begins to bark orders in Italian.

His sister is still kneeling beside me, her dress is torn and her hands are stained red, with streaks of mascara running down her cheeks in fragile lines. She doesn't cry out loud, just presses harder.

Heavy footsteps echo back into the room, and I look up at the towering figure.

He returns only slower this time and more deliberate.

He doesn't glance at his sister, nor at the blood, nor at the man clinging to life on the floor but at me.

The silence and stillness is stretching for too long. My throat's is getting dry now as my eyes stay locked with his like I'm daring him to speak first. He doesn't. He just watches me like he's reading a book only he understands.

"I said you'll do," he says again only softer now. "That wasn't a compliment. That was a warning."

I stiffen slightly at his cold remarks.

His dark gaze drops to his sister, who is still kneeling.

"Go change," he tells her. "Wash that off."

She nods and without a word rise to her feet like she's still floating in some other world but before she can leave, the man stops her with a look.

"She saved him. You helped. Do not forget either of those things."

Her mouth parts in surprise, then closes. Not sparing me a glance, the woman leaves without another word, her thin figure disappears into the hallway with silent steps and wet eyes.

Now it's just us. Me, him, and the weight of what he's allowed me to carry.

"You know he might still die," I say, because I have to.

"I know." There is no hesitation. No flinch. Just acceptance. 

"I don't have the tools... he needs a surgeon, proper bandaging---"

"I didn't ask for perfection. I asked for time." He steps closer and lowers his voice. "And you gave me that."

The blood on my palms has started to dry in full ugly streaks.

"And what now?" I ask. "Do I get a thank you or a bullet?"

He almost smiles. Not with his mouth but with his eyes. That slow, terrifying shift that means that I've amused him just enough not to die.

"For now," he says, "you clean up. You eat. Then you sit across from me, and you tell me what else you're capable of."

He turns to leave again, and I swear I can still feel the air change in his absence--- like the room exhales only when he's gone. 

I stay there a moment longer. Just breathing.

Then I look at Antonio--- alive, somehow--- and wipe my face with the back of my wrist, leaving a smudge of blood across my cheek.

There is no turning back now.

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