Page 71 of Locked and Loaded

Lennox didn't move. The cold had seeped in under the jacket, and he could see her shivering now, a fine tremor she was trying to hide. She was exhausted and sore and barely holding it together, and she was still standing there arguing with him because that was who she was. That was the Lennox he recognized.

"You don't get to decide that," she said.

"Yes, I do."

"You got shot because of me. You jumped off a roof because of me. I'm not going to be the reason you don't sleep either."

He stepped closer and lowered his voice. "The men who came to the riad were professionals. If they tracked us this far, I need to know the second they show up. That means you stay close."

She stared at him. He watched the fight drain out of her, replaced by something heavier. Guilt, maybe. Or grief. Or just the weight of everything she'd been carrying since Ibiza.

"Fine," she said. "One tent. But separate beds."

"There's only one bed."

"Of course there is."

She walked past him toward the tent. The sand had to be cold under her bare feet. She'd been barefoot since the riad and hadn't complained once. He filed that away.

Inside, the tent was larger than most apartments. The walls were lined with red fabric that glowed warm in the electric light from the bedside lamps. Carpets layered three deep covered the floor. A bathroom was behind an embroidered cloth wall that had a thin door to block the entry. It contained a copper basin, mirror, solar-powered light, along with a toilet and a shower. A bed on a wooden platform, white sheets, a pile of pillows, a blanket thick enough to stop a knife.

Lennox moved back to the center of the room and stared. “Glamping to the extreme.

"Yes," Dragan agreed.

Hassan appeared with tea and flatbread and dates. He set the tray down and slipped out, and then they were alone.

"You should eat something," Dragan said.

"You should let me look at your arm,” she countered.

"You cleaned it at John's."

"A lifetime ago. And you've been driving." Her eyes were steely with determination when she met his gaze. "Sit down."

He sat on the edge of the bed. She went to the bathroom and came back with a cloth and a bowl of water. When she knelt in front of him, he could see the tremor in her hands. Not from cold. From everything else.

"Shirt off," she said.

He reached back with his good arm and pulled it over his head. The sleeve was stiff with dried blood. The bandage she'd wrapped over the gash at the warehouse was dark and heavy.

She'd seen his chest before. In the bathroom at the riad, she'd traced the scar along his ribs. At the pool, she'd cataloged the rest. She knew what he looked like. But the way she looked at him now was different. Slower. Like she was memorizing something she was afraid she'd lose.

She peeled the old bandage away. The wound was clean, at least. Her work had held up. But the edges had pulled apart during the drive, and fresh blood was welling up.

"I told you it needed stitches," she said.

"Didn't have time."

Rolling her eyes, she wet the cloth and started cleaning the wound. Her touch was gentle. Gentler than it had been at the warehouse. He didn't move. He watched her work instead, the way her brow furrowed when she concentrated, the way her mouth pressed into a thin line when she saw how much blood there was.

"Hassan has a kit," he said.

She found Hassan waiting outside with it, as if he'd known. She carried it back and knelt in front of Dragan again and threaded the needle. While she did that, he snapped open a tube of lidocaine cream and slathered it around the edges of the wound. He didn’t truly need the numbing effect, but knew that Lennox would benefit from not seeing him wince with pain each time the needle pierced his skin. He didn’t like any kind of needle.

"Start at the deepest part," he said. "Small stitches. Close together."

She took a breath and pressed the needle through his skin. Her hands were steady now. Steadier than they'd been a minute ago. She pulled the thread through, tied it off, snipped it short, then did it again. Her head was bent over his arm, her hair falling forward, and he could smell the faint trace of rosewater from the soap at John's. He’d rather focus on that than on what she was doing with the needle.