It rings three times before a man answers. His voice is calm and measured, with a distinct Japanese accent.
“Yes?”
“I… I…” I swallow hard, working through the panic and brain fog. “Ronan has an emergency situation he needs you to handle.”
I rattle off the address, barely aware of what I’m even saying. The man on the other end doesn’t sound surprised or concerned. He simply replies, “Twenty minutes,” and hangs up.
I lower the phone, staring at it like it might have answers. “Who was that?”
“My private physician. He’ll patch me up.”
Ronan’s squeezed shut his eyes again, breathing raggedly through the pain that must be consuming him.
It’s as if he refuses to give any other real signs he’s suffering. He simply grinds down on his jaw and bears it.
So I push down the nausea and squeamishness and do what I can to try to make it better for him.
I press the towel harder against his shoulder, wincing every time he hisses in pain, and wipe away some of the blood with a second towel. My hands are slick with it, warm and metallic smelling, but I guess if there’s anyone’s blood I should be willing to have on me, it would be my husband’s.
The vows we took—however forced or arranged this marriage is—were for life or death.
“What happened back there?” I ask, desperate to fill the silence between us. “Who was shooting at us?”
Ronan can’t bring himself to answer right away. His jaw works, muscles tensing under his sickly pale complexion. “Not sure. Not yet.”
“But you have suspicions?”
A bitter smile twists his lips, gone as quickly as it appeared. “I’ve always got suspicions.”
I let the question go, focusing on wiping clean more of the blood from his shoulder and doing my best to keep from studying the wound itself.
It’s as I work that a strange realization settles over me.
I don’t want Ronan to die. I’m deeply worried for him and care that he’s hurt right now.
It’s true that I hate his guts. I resent every moment of this arranged marriage between us. Every mocking word and arrogant, insufferable smirk.
But I don’t want him dead. Not even a little bit, regardless of the business card Chantal gave me for so-called desperate situations.
Ronan pushed me down. When those bullets started flying, he threw himself on top of me without hesitation. If he hadn’t done that...
I don’t want to think about what would’ve happened if he hadn’t protected me like he did.
Twenty minutes crawl by, the silence in the small apartment disrupted by a single sharp knock at the door.
I jump like a startled cat, then get up to answer.
“Check the peephole first,” Ronan grunts. “Could be anybody out there.”
I pad across the dusty floor and press my eye to the small glass circle. A man stands on the other side—small and solemn, wearing a fedora hat and large glasses that make him look like he’s straight out of a noir film. He carries a worn leather doctor’s bag in one hand, his mouth pressed into a tight line.
“It’s a small man,” I describe. “Asian, dark hair and big glasses. He’s wearing a fedora.”
“Hino,” Ronan says with a nod of confirmation.
Dr. Hino strides through the moment I unlock the door. He doesn’t acknowledge me at all, crossing the room straight to where Ronan’s collapsed on the couch.
Setting his doctor’s bag on the coffee table, he quickly sets to work.