Page 63 of Locked and Loaded

Dragan opened his mouth. The man simply pointed toward the warehouse. Dragan sighed. "I hate when you do that."

"You'll survive."

"So you keep telling me."

The warehouse had once been a mechanic's shop. The smell of oil lingered beneath the scent of dust. Metal shelves lined one wall, stacked with boxes, tools, and spare parts. A battered wooden workbench occupied the center of the room.

John crossed to a cabinet, pulled out a thick bag, and tossed it onto the bench. "Trauma kit."

Dragan reached for it. Lennox slapped his hand away. "Sit."

Both men looked at her. Dragan raised an eyebrow. "I can manage."

"I know you can." She opened the bag. "But you're not going to."

He studied her for a second before slowly lowering himself onto the edge of the workbench.

John, or whatever his name was, looked between the two of them and wisely decided this was one argument that didn't require his participation. "I'll make coffee," he said, disappearing into a back room.

Lennox carefully rolled Dragan's sleeve higher, peeling the fabric away from skin slick with blood. The graze wasn't deep, but it was ugly. What really caught her attention wasn't the fresh wound, though; it was everything around it. One thin line disappeared beneath his sleeve toward his shoulder. Another circled his wrist. A puckered mark near his elbow looked suspiciously like an old bullet wound.

She looked up. "How many times have you been shot?"

He shrugged, then winced. "I stopped counting."

She wasn't sure whether he was joking, and the disturbing thing was she suspected he wasn't. She soaked a gauze pad with antiseptic. "This is going to sting."

"I know."

She pressed it against the wound. He didn't move, not even slightly.

She frowned. "Doesn't that hurt?"

"Yes."

She paused. "You're supposed to say no."

"You asked."

Despite herself, she laughed softly. "You really aren't normal."

"I've been told."

“This should be stitched,” she said with a glance at John.

“No time,” Dragan replied. “Just do your best.”

She scowled at him, but focused on cleaning the graze carefully, quietly searching for any debris that could infect the wound. His forearm was warm beneath her fingers, solid and strong, and she hated that she noticed. She hated even more that he simply sat there letting her work without offering advice or trying to take over. Most men would have. Dragan didn't. He watched her quietly instead, and she became acutely aware of the silence between them, how close they were sitting, the faint scent of cedar and soap that still clung to him beneath the dust and blood. Her heartbeat picked up for reasons she refused to examine.

She wrapped a fresh bandage around his arm and fastened it securely before sitting back. "There."

He looked down at it for a moment before meeting her eyes. "You've done this before."

"I’ve had my fair share of scrapes."

It wasn't entirely true. She’d been careful. Her work hadn't been. She'd patched up colleagues often enough over the years, and Dragan seemed to recognize she was only giving him half the story. He didn't push. Instead, he simply nodded.

"Thank you."