Page 100 of The Final Cut

“Then stop bleeding where I can see it.”

Something moves across her face. It might be anger. It might be the beginning of a smile that has forgotten how to live. Whatever it is, she crushes it quickly and looks away.

I start pacing because standing still will turn me into something worse. The rubber band snaps again. My chest feels too small for my lungs, and all I can see is Delia on a chapel floor while Isabel watched or ordered or smiled from another room with her hands clean.

“I’m going to kill her,” I say, half under my breath.

Nash turns toward me.

“I’m going to fucking kill that bitch.” My voice rises despite every effort to keep it steady. “What the hell did they do to you? What did they do?”

Delia looks down at her injuries like she’d forgotten they were visible. “It’s an old correction.”

My stomach turns. “Correction.”

She says nothing.

I look at the raw grooves, the broken beads, the blood dark beneath Ever’s careful hands. “I’m going to kill her.”

“Reva.”

I stop because the sound of Nash’s voice gives me a wall to slam against.

He doesn’t raise it. He doesn’t soften it either. “You are the one here with medical training. Use it.”

The command cuts through the rage cleanly enough to leave a path.

My hands are shaking, but I know what to do with wounds. I know gauze and antiseptic, pressure and tape, breath and pulse. I know how to look at blood and see the body beneath it instead of the violence that made it. That skill has never felt like a mercy before. Tonight, it gives me somewhere to put my hands.

Ever sets the kit on the table and opens it. Deacon lowers himself into a chair because Nash points to one, and Delia sits only after Nash pulls out another chair and steps back, leaving her the space to choose it. She lowers herself carefully. Her jaw tightens when her knees bend, but she does not make a sound.

Of course she doesn’t.

No. I push that thought away. I will not make her pain into proof of how strong she is. Isabel has probably done enough of that for both of us.

I turn to Deacon first because his blood is spreading along his side, darkening the black fabric. Delia turns at the same time. We both notice. We both react. The shared motion makes the room feel suddenly too bright.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Just a graze. Do her first.”

“Shut up. Knife or bullet?”

“Bullet,” Delia says before he can answer.

Our eyes meet over him.

Her concern is as real as mine, just different. The knowledge sits between us with teeth. She sees my hands go to his shirt, sees the ease of the touch, and her expression closes so fast I could almost believe I imagined the hurt.

Almost.

“Shirt up,” I tell Deacon.

His eyes stay on mine. “It’s shallow.”

“I didn’t ask for your diagnosis.”

He lets me lift the shirt.