12. twelve

Reaching over her, I grab two towels from the hook on the wall as I fall to my knees into the pool of blood surrounding her. Lucia is sprawled across the floor, glass from the shattered shower door surrounding her, and the knife from the kitchen beside her.

The fucking kitchen knife.

Her near-lifeless body turns more gray by the second as blood pumps from the deep gash running up her forearm. I wrap one of the towels around her arm, tight enough that she winces in pain.

Good. That's what you fucking get.

I pull at her limp body until she is sitting up against me, her back to my chest. Squeezing around the towel, I pull her wounded arm over my shoulder and dig my cellphone from my pocket. I sent a quick 911 text to Doc, unlock the front door, and drop the phone to tend to Lucia.

"Just…let me…die." Her eyelids flutter as she pushes out the words. "I can't."

"Yes you can," I firmly grip her chin and pull her fluttering gaze up to mine. "You fucking can."

"Please…." She draws out the plea. "It's almost over."

The number of men—and women—that I have killed for my family is so vast that I lost track of my body count over a decade ago. Hundreds—maybe even thousands—yet the idea of this woman dying on my bathroom floor stirs something indescribable inside of me. It is as though I am flooded with sadness and an infuriating rage.

Her body has fallen lax against me. Heavy. Lifeless. Releasing her chin, I feel for a pulse. It takes me a moment, but I find it—faint and slow. I slap her cheek, and she releases a soft breath. I pull back and strike her again, and once more even harder. Her lashes flutter, and I firmly grip her chin and pull her face toward mine until I am the only thing she can see.

"Fucking look at me, little lamb, and listen to every fucking word." My tone is deep and laced with anger. "You didn't survive fucking hell to bleed out on my bathroom floor. Don't give them the fucking satisfaction of breaking you. You. Fucking. Fight."

Her eyes lock onto mine, my grip on her chin forbidding her from looking away, I feel her whole body tremble against me as her breath sputters. Tears well in her eyes, and a lone drop rolls down her cheek.

"Good," I snarl as I release my bruisingly hard grip on her chin. We sit in silence as I continue to hold pressure on her arm with it raised above my head.

"Jesus!" Dr. Aguilar exclaims when she rushes into the bathroom. Her eyes immediately go to the knife on the floor.

"She fell," I interject before she has a chance to say anything further. She nods her head in agreement and immediately gets to work on Lucia's arm.

"It's a clean cut," Dr. Aguilar informs me as she inspects the wound. "And while there's a lot of blood, she somehow managed to miss the radial, ulnar, and interosseous arteries."

She wraps a fresh towel around Lucia's arm. Glass crunches under the soles of her shoes as she walks in front of us and holds Lucia, prompting me to stand.

"Can you carry her out to the table for me?" she asks. "It'll be easier to work on her out there."

Standing, I lift Lucia into my arms with ease and carry her through the house. Laying her on the table, out of earshot of Dr. Aguilar washing her hands in the kitchen, I hover over Lucia's face and deeply whisper, "You're going to fight for me, aren't you, little lamb?"

"Yes." She exhales the lone word.

A pint of blood, another of saline, thirty-two stitches, and a shot of Midazolam later, Lucia is resting in my bed. According to Dr. Aguilar, who fought me pretty fucking hard about not admitting Lucia for observation, she'll be pretty lethargic for a couple of hours.

I opt to use the time to clean up the mess in the bathroom. Blood is a fucking bitch to get out of grout on a tile floor. Once I've cleaned broken glass and blood, I close the door to a crack. I strip from yet another set of blood-soiled set of clothes and turn on the shower to wash away the blood that I know is staining my skin. My shower is quick—and thanks to the missing door—chillier than I'm used to.

Turning off the shower, I wrap a towel around my waist as goosebumps prickle over my flesh. Using the light from the bathroom doorway, I make my way into the bedroom to grab clothes. Scrounging through the dresser, I find boxer briefs. I carry them into the closet and slide them on under my towel before dropping it to the ground. I quickly pull on a pair of sweatpants and pull a T-shirt from the shelf.

Pulling it over my head as I walk back into the bedroom, Lucia's soft voice startles me. "Why do you care?"

"I don't…"