Page 9 of Canvas’ Muse

"I need to cut away this bandaging," Saint says, looking at me. "Your work?"

"Yes. Best I could do with a basic first aid kit."

"You did good." He's gentle as he cuts through the elastic wrap, peeling away the blood-soaked gauze. "Probably saved his life. He'd have bled out before I got here if you hadn't applied pressure."

*He'd have bled out.*

Fuck. Davis would have died on this floor, in his own studio, alone.

Because he protected me.

Davis's eyes find mine, and even through the pain and the drugs Saint has clearly given him: his pupils are slightly dilated now, the tension in his jaw easing, there's something there. Something that makes me want to stay and see this through ‘til the very end.

"You should go home," he says. "This isn't your world. Shouldn't have gotten dragged into it."

"Too late for that." I'm still standing, watching Saint work, my arms wrapped around myself. "I'm already covered in your blood, and I've got a finished dragon on my thigh that I'll never be able to look at without remembering gunfire. Pretty sure I'm involved whether I like it or not."

Saint glances up. "You got the piece finished before this happened?"

"I was cleaning it," Davis says. "Just wrapped it. Was about to go over aftercare instructions when—" He doesn't finish the sentence.

Saint's expression shifts to something almost sympathetic. "Hell of a way to finish a session."

"Not my first session. First time being shot at during one, though." I'm amazed I can joke about this. I'm amazed I'm not screaming or crying or running away. "That's new."

"Welcome to the Iron Phoenix experience," Ranger says dryly from the doorway. "We like to make things memorable."

Saint works in silence for several minutes, cleaning the wounds with precision. Davis stays remarkably still, though I can see the pain in the tightness around his eyes, the way his good hand is fisted against his thigh.

"Arterial damage doesn't look too bad," Saint finally announces. "Bullet missed anything major. You got lucky, brother."

"Don't feel lucky," Davis mutters.

"You're alive. She's alive. That's lucky." Saint starts stitching the exit wound first, his sutures neat and even. "Internal stitches first, then external. This is gonna take a while."

"I've got time." But my legs are starting to feel strange. Weak. Like they might not hold me much longer.

Davis turns his head to look at me. "You really should go. This isn't safe."

"Neither is the ER on a Saturday night, but I still show up for my shift." I try to meet his eyes, but the room tilts slightly. "I don't run. Not from hard things."

"This isn't hard, Eden. This is dangerous. These people—" He stops himself, glancing at Saint and Ranger. "This isn't your fight."

"You made it my fight when you covered me with your body." My voice sounds distant, like it's coming from somewhere else. "You made it my fight when you took that bullet. So don't tell me to go home like I'm some civilian who can't handle reality. I'm a trauma nurse. I've seen worse than this."

"Not directed at you, you haven't." His voice is quiet, serious. "This was personal. They'll come back."

Ranger shifts in the doorway. "We'll have someone watching the studio around the clock. And Canvas, you're staying at the clubhouse until this is sorted."

"Like hell—"

"Not a request." Saint doesn't look up from his stitching. "Phoenix's orders. You get shot, you stay where we can protect you. You know the rules."

My legs give out.

One second, I'm standing, the next I'm sliding down the nearest wall, my back scraping against it as I collapse onto the floor. My hands are shaking violently. Then my whole body.

"Eden!" Davis tries to sit up, but Saint pushes him back down.