Rosemary and Rue

“You didn’t have to. You came Home.” Hand still cupping my chin, Devin leaned forward and kissed me.

I worked for Devin for years; he’d had his hands over every inch of my body for reasons both sexual and practical, from pulling my clothes off to bandaging a wound. In all those years, he’d never kissed me with so much urgency or such a feeling of need. I found myself responding despite my injuries, first returning the kiss, then sliding down off the couch to kneel beside him. His stitches were good. They didn’t even pull as I knelt.

Devin was the one to break away, releasing the hand he was holding as he said, “I need to look at your shoulder.”

“Wow,” I said, dizzy now for reasons that had nothing to do with blood loss. “Way to kill the mood.”

He smirked. “No, darling. The amount of blood you’ve decided to accessorize with could do that quite admirably without my help.”

I glanced down at myself as I slid back onto the couch. The robe I’d borrowed from Lily wasn’t pink anymore. Dried blood had turned it a mottled shade of brown, with a brighter streak of red over my left shoulder where exertion had reopened the gunshot wound.

“I need a shower,” I said.

“We’ll get to that in a minute,” Devin said, reaching up to peel away my robe.

Lily’s carefully constructed poultice had pulled away during the fight and was dangling loose against my collarbone. Devin tugged the last of the bindings away, dropping the whole bundle onto the floor. “She does good work,” he admitted, almost grudgingly. “It looks like she even managed to wash most of the iron out before it could really work its way into your body. That probably explains why you’re still conscious.”

“You really are a happy little ray of sunshine today, aren’t you?” I was looking at the exit wound, and the visible damage still looked about half as bad as my thigh, despite having been made with the same caliber bullet. “Does it need stitches?”

“To be on the safe side? Yes.” Devin picked up the cloth he’d used to clean the blood off my leg. “I don’t think I need to worry about disinfecting this.” More quietly, he added, “It’s going to scar, you know.”

“Iron always does.” I watched him wash the blood away, considering the severity of the damage. Lily really did an amazing job. My arm wouldn’t be up to my normal standards for a while—probably several weeks, if ever—but it wouldn’t be useless, as long as I could take things easy.

As if that’s ever been an option.

Devin closed the front with three stitches, and the back with only two. “There.” He returned the needle and surgical thread to the first aid kit before standing, offering me his hands. I raised my eyebrows, and he nodded toward the bathroom. “Didn’t you want a shower?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “But I’m a little naked here.”

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Isn’t that the best state in which to take a shower? Nudity is, I believe, a prerequisite.”

“If you insist.” Taking his hands, I let him pull me off the couch. I stumbled slightly as I put my weight on my injured leg, relieved when it didn’t buckle. I probably couldn’t run, but I could walk, at least for now. Depending on the infection, well, we’d see how long that lasted.

Devin didn’t comment on the way I leaned on him as we walked to the bathroom. I appreciated that, almost as much as I appreciated his steadying arm around my waist. “You still like your showers hot, don’t you?” he asked, letting go at the bathroom door.

“The hotter, the better,” I said, before the mirror caught my attention. “Oh.”