Mira puffed on the air thick with the metallic smell of blood.
Her hands shivered, skimming across his pale skin as she applied the antiseptics.
The man groaned.
"You ok? The plexus block, did it not work?" she asked, strangling the tremor in her voice.
"Nah, it's nothing, a small sting," he crooned, a smile dipped in his eyes tracing her.
She scowled. "Keep your eyes on the mirror and tell me if I did wrong!"
Guttural and raw, a soft laugh fled his bobbing larynx. "Hold the needle at a ninety-degree angle to the skin, starting about three to five millimeters from the edge of the wound."
Mira drew a long breath. Compared to the rip slithering down the entire back of Reynold's calf, she told herself, the bullet scrape couldn't be too bad to handle. It mustn't be. She sunk her teeth in her bottom lip while the needle went in.
Placing each stitch a quarter inch apart, she aligned the edges, her heart in her throat when the glint of scissors brought a click to the excess thread. Cold sweat prickled her back. She applied more antiseptics, her hands unfurled the bandage, swathing it under his arm corded with muscles and around his tight chest. A momentary smile flickered in her eyes as she finished tying the knot she was somewhat proud of. And the moment lasted the length of a sigh. She jolted as he grabbed her wrist, pulling her into his arm, his sculpted straight nose dangerously close to her cheek. Color rose to her cheek, she could feel it.
"Your pulse is racing" he crooned, his voice deep and soft, like an air bubble under the sea, a half smile flitting across those burgundy red lips that wobbled her knees. "You alright?"
"Shouldn't I be the one to ask you that?" she retorted, tucking her cheek to a shoulder, her eyes searching every nook in the walls as if she could excavate a tunnel out of her plight by looking.
"Are you shy?" he teased. "Never seen a man's body before, Evan?"
"I, I, wasn't, I mean I'm not, I –" Her eloquence which she found readily at her disposal had abandoned her entirely. A whimper slipped off her lips unbidden. She harrumphed, praying to all the gods who took pity on humanity that small, giveaway sound had gone unnoticed. "Just let me finish it up."
He chuckled. His hand swept to her waist. Scooping her to him, he put her head on his shoulder. "You were fantastic. Thank you."
Mira skipped a breath, her teeth chattering.
"Are you still afraid of me? Surely I can't be worse than those on your heels?"
"I'm not afraid," she slurred her words.
"You're shaking."
"Just the aftershock. This isn't something you see or do every day," she managed with another riposte that took all the guts she left and scratched the mosquito bites she got from a few days ago.
"Don't scratch," he crooned, a soft chuckle in his voice. "You'll make it worse." Pushing himself up, he went over a cabinet where he found a tube of after-bite cream. "You're safe with me." He applied the cream on her and patted her head. "And no one can hurt you here."
Mira ventured a glance up at the figure towering over her. Despite the harsh overhead lights, his ink-black eyes looked gentle, gleaming at her like onyx peering from the depth of a half-open chest. An intoxicating scent of cedar emanated from him amidst the blood that thickened the air. Her mind screamed danger while her heart tempted fate. She shut her eyes with force, his breath brushing her cheek like the stroke of a feather.
"Do me another favor?" he asked, his voice gravelly.
Stifling a hiccup, she summoned her sanity before peeling open her eyes. "You see the shelf there with a glass door next to the medical fridge?" He flicked a glance in the direction. "Second tier from the bottom, can you grab me the IV tourniquet and the catheters?"
She did as bid. Passing by the medical fridge, she snuck a peek inside. Blood bags labeled PRBCs with three different initials each occupied a rack. W, E, and N. She wondered which one of these letters belonged to the man with whom she was sharing the space. A quiet sigh escaped her throat as she opened the shelf. Catheters and IV tourniquets. Being asthmatic all her life, she had pneumonia six times, and every winter took its toll on her lungs that she spent most of the cold months with a damn tube buried in the back of her hand. After Reynold's downfall, and with no hospital daring to admit them, she forced herself to learn how to administer injections, not without numerous accidents of hematoma on herself. She rubbed the back of her hand as if trying to wipe off the blood that flowed back when the catheter dislodged. It seemed no matter where she hid, she could never get away from these damn tubes and needles and rubber bands. A wry smile scrabbled on her lips, compressing them to a tight slit.
She returned to the man, who had prepared the antibiotic solution and hung the IV bag on a pole next to the reclining chair. As he sat down again, trying to tie the tourniquet on his arm with the help of his mouth, Mira grabbed it from him. His head tilted to the side as he watched her make a tight knot without breaking a sweat. "You sure you have zero medical background?" His voice was tinged with surprise.
"If being a patient for too long counts as medical background." She shrugged. "I do want to study medicine though. Hold on," Putting the catheter through the saline IV warmer she found with the tourniquet, she added, "Nurses don't always remember to put it on, but it's nice when they do."
The man faltered for a moment the length of a breath. A smile alighted on his burgundy red lips. "Thank you," he said.
Mira only shook her head and stepped back to a wall when he administered the injection on himself. His bicep flexed, veins bulging. She looked away while her heart raced, threatening to break her rib cage. Cussing at herself in silence, she straightened her priorities. Her escape from the Customs had incurred one major oversight: she left behind all her belongings, including her last two asthma inhalers. She risked another glimpse of the man sitting with his back hunched on the reclining chair like an alabaster god, timeless and nonchalant, as he looked down at the river of time that carried the sufferings and joys of all mankind.
"Does W, E, or N happen to have asthma?" she ventured, disquiet laced in her voice. If any of the three happened to share her condition, there must be inhalers here among all the medical supplies, and she might be able to borrow one.
The man looked at her sidelong with a lopsided smile. "What?"
"Never mind." Puffing out her cheeks, she dipped her head. Her hope deflated. She could only keep her fingers crossed that she wouldn't have an attack before she got out of here alive. Wiping her brow bristle with cold sweat on her shoulder, she leaned to the wall and plopped on the floor, her chin tipping skyward, her lungs toiling for air that felt thinner with each breath she drew.
Silence besieged the insulated space, but Mira was too bone-weary to care. She closed her eyes, trying to collect herself.
"Are you alright?" His gravelly voice dispelled the silence.
She only nodded.
"Are you still afraid? Of me? Or, are you shy?"
"I'm not shy!" she bluffed, drawling on the adjective a bit too much she feared it gave her away. "Why do you ask?"
"For one, you haven't even got the nerve to ask me for my name yet."
She chewed on her bottom lip, gingerly peeling open her eyes. "Like you'll give me your real name…" Her mumbling faded at the sound of his laugh.
"Are you referring to yourself?"
She huddled against the wall, her mind racing for a reply. "Was I wrong though?" she ventured, strangling the tremor in her voice. "Judging from everything tonight, and this place, you definitely aren't a normal dude. I'll eat my shorts if you give me your real name –"
"Warshon," the man said. "I saw you looking at the blood bags earlier. You must have seen the W."
"That W can stand for anything. Maybe you're a woman," she bleated, dodging his gaze, and while he laughed, shaking his head, she added, "And please, sir, say no more. I don't want to die from knowing too much I shouldn't, which –"
"Warshon Qusbecq," he cut her short with an alluring smile. "How do you do?"
Dread weighed upon her. Many years ago, before the Revolution that had thrown the world topsy-turvey, in an afternoon when all the leaves had turned into a palette that colored the hills, she and Reynold sat on the bay window in his study. Over a game of chess she was losing, the old man tucked his cheek to the chinrest and bowed the strings. "Don't just look at the pieces or what it could do, as they all do this and that by the command of the man sitting behind them," he said to her and winked – as she could still summon his voice to her head as if everything had only been a bad dream, and she could still find him sitting right across the chessboard, smiling at her if only she could wake up from it – she refrained from a sob.
When she asked for an example of such a man, the name Arslan Qusbecq was the reply.
"Few people pay attention to him, and rarely does he make a public appearance. That's their mistake. People are easily deceived by what they see. Consider the force controlling those you can't see. If you know me, you know how to beat me. And if you know a man like Arslan Qusbecq, you understand why you should avoid sitting across his board or confronting him head-on. Let's hope you never have to come across such a man."
Surely there are other families with such a name in the Republic? – she thought. But can there be another Qusbecq powerful enough to have a bunker like this under the sea that isn't related to Arslan Qusbecq?
Her breath hitched.
"Oops," teased the beautiful man who introduced himself as Warshon Qusbecq. "What should we do now? You already know too much."
He's toying with me, like every serial killer does to their prey! She banged her head on her arm. He's announcing my death sentence! "Sir, I know you probably don't give a shit, but killing the one who just kind of sort of saved you is bad for your karma! Next time you probably won't bump into a human crotch that came in handy. And judging from this," she paused, her eyes roaming the spherical space. "The chance for a next time isn't small."
"You are…" He lifted his chin, his brow elevating, his smile amused. "Who says anything about killing you?"
"You're not?"
"I'll eat my shorts if you give me your real name, didn't you say that?"
She batted her eyes while her mind went blank, her lips hanging apart by a hair.
"Don't eat your shorts," he continued. "Eat with me."
"What?"
"You're right, killing you will be bad for my karma. But letting you roam free from me will be my mistake. Eat with me from now, that's for losing the bet."
"You mean like a hostage?" She sagged on the floor. "Sir, you can't be serious!"
"I assure you I can."
Mira clamped a hand to her mouth just in time before another whimper betrayed her.
"Now," He lowered his head, a loaded smile lingering in those onyx eyes. "Tell me something about yourself, Evan."
She twiddled her thumbs. The way he pronounced the name roasted her. "Wh-why, Erm, why does it matter?" Her voice stumbled over the words.
"Since you'll be my dinner guest, I think it does." He sat up a little from the reclining chair. "You can start with the easy ones."
"Like what?"
"What do you do for fun, for example."
Her hands clenched. A gut feeling told her that he knew it was a fake name. Yet, he didn't interrogate her. He didn't even bother asking why she was sneaking around the Port at this hour. He didn't because he knew she'd lie. He'd rather have the irrelevant truth he might be able to piece into something useful later. And she needed to offer a piece that was the least specific from the jigsaw puzzle of her life.
She puffed out her cheeks. "I used to write."