Fatally Yours

Chapter 68

•DOMINIK•

I leaned against the doorway, my arms crossed over my chest, watching Indiana as she sat next to Hailey's bed. She hadn't moved for hours.

Her posture was stiff, her back straight as if she were holding herself together by sheer will. Hailey lay there motionless, her breathing steady but shallow.

Dr. Kendrick had assured us that everything was under control. The antidote he'd administered had flushed most of the drugs out of Hailey's system before they could cause any permanent damage.

She was stable now, but still unconscious. None of that seemed to matter to Indiana. She refused to leave her sister's side, her hand clasped tightly around Hailey's as if letting go would somehow undo the progress we'd made.

I glanced at her arm, the crude makeshift bandage she'd tied around the bullet wound now dark with fresh blood. The crimson streaked down her arm, a vivid reminder of everything she'd endured today.

Dr. Kendrick had tried to get her to step away, to let him properly clean and stitch the wound, but she'd refused, her stubbornness a match for her grief.

But I couldn't stand it any longer. The sight of her hurting herself in her effort to stay strong—it was too much.

Pushing off the doorway, I walked over to her. She didn't even look up as I approached, her focus completely on Hailey.

I crouched down beside her, placing a hand gently on her shoulder. She flinched slightly at the contact, her eyes finally flickering toward me.

"Indiana," I murmured, leaning in to press a soft kiss to the top of her head.

Her hair smelled faintly of blood and smoke, but beneath it, there was still that trace of her—of us.

"You need to let me take care of your arm."

She blinked, as if coming out of a trance, and looked at her bloodied arm. For a moment, she didn't say anything, just stared at the wound as though noticing it for the first time.

"Please," I said softly, my hand sliding down to cover hers where it rested on Hailey's.

She hesitated, her grip tightening on her sister's hand before finally letting go. She exhaled deeply, the sound shaky, and nodded without a word.

I helped her to her feet, keeping my arm around her waist as we left the room. She didn't resist this time, didn't argue or insist that she was fine. She let me guide her down the narrow hallway, her steps unsteady but determined.

The small infirmary in the safehouse wasn't much—a metal table, a cabinet stocked with basic medical supplies, and a faint antiseptic smell that reminded me of a battlefield medic's station.

I guided her to the couch and gently lowered her down, making sure she was comfortable before I grabbed a stool and sat in front of her. Her arm was tense as I carefully unwrapped the old, blood-soaked cloth.

She hissed slightly in pain when I pressed a disinfectant-soaked cotton ball against the wound, and I immediately glanced up at her face, my movements slowing.

"Sorry," I murmured, watching her grimace.

"It's fine," she said through gritted teeth, though I could tell she was trying to be stronger than she felt.

I focused back on her arm, cleaning the wound with as much care as possible. When I was done, I wrapped a fresh layer of bandage around it, securing it neatly.

"That should hold for now," I said softly, leaning forward and grabbing her hand. Her fingers were cold in mine, and I gave them a reassuring squeeze.