Page 11 of Pas de Trois
Shit.
The use of my name in his plea reminds me that he’s human—a fucking shitty one, but a human, nonetheless. The words spill out before I can think better of them. “You have a private doctor, don’t you?”
Why did I even say that?
I don’t want this bastard to get medical treatment.
I want him to die.
Still, the human part of me insists that help be offered, if only for the sake of proving to myself that I’m a better man than he is.
“Don’t call him. I don’t think I can be saved.”
It’s like he’s already given up. It’s possible his wounds could be healed with proper medical treatment, but without…he’ll continue to bleed until he dies.
He knows that.
And he doesn’t care.
I sigh. “Okay. I promise. I won’t say a word to Anya until we get back.”
“Good. Thank you.”
His stare softens before he presses his eyes shut, sucking in a breath through his nose to steady himself. When he opens them again, he looks somehow…haunted. But there’s no more time to delay in decoding his expression.
“Tell me everything.”
