6. Nurse
Chapter six
Nurse
(Kiah)
W hen I wake up from my much-needed power nap on the futon, I almost expect to find Nico hovering over me with a knife again. But the fucker is thankfully still tied and caged on my bed.
Relief soaks into my tired limbs as I drag myself off the floor.
I should probably move him and burn those sheets, but right now, I’m too drained for that kind of physical labor.
Coffee. I need coffee.
Glancing at the kettle-shaped clock above the stove, I do the math: I only got about four hours of sleep. Not ideal, but it will have to do.
After finally restraining the asshole, my victory drink turned into a victory binge, and I finished an entire bottle of red wine as well as the remaining whiskey, trying to calm my mind enough to sleep.
It’s a good thing I kept that chastity cage. The things people leave behind at their holiday destinations...It’s been in the cupboard for like a year. I don’t even know what made me think of it, but once the idea took root in my mind, there was no turning back.
Probably not the right thing to do. But who gives a fuck? That brat deserved much worse for his bullshit behavior.
I wish I could just snap my fingers and make Nico disappear.
A bit of back-up would’ve been great right about now.
But as usual, I’ll have to deal with this alone.
What’s new?
I’ve never had anyone but myself.
Here, pick me with the sad origins story. “ I didn’t know they still left babies outside churches?” , my classmates would whisper behind cupped hands as I walked by, giggling like I couldn’t hear them. “ Shame, her parents didn’t want her, did you hear?”
My foster parents always told me to pay the gossips no mind, that I was special, meant for great things. They were lovely people, kind people, but they were old—they died a few months apart when I was 12, leaving me with nothing except a single suitcase of clothes and the instruction to “move in with Aunt Martha down South” .
Aunt Martha was okay; she liked to bake square carrot cupcakes and watch birds through her oversized binoculars.
Her taste in men was atrocious, though. She probably could’ve had a good life if Uncle William wasn’t around.
Uncle William had a scruffy mustache and always smelled like rum. He liked to rearrange things with his fist—mostly Aunt Martha’s face, sometimes mine. I was too weak to do anything, to fight back.
Once, when I was 16, he spat on the black eye he himself had given me, laughing maniacally as he told me how I’d never amount to anything more than a cum dumpster for lowlife men.
Fucking asshole.
I joined the Marines as soon as I legally could. And when I went back home, Uncle William wasn’t the one laughing, I was. His head made a hollow crack as I smashed his skull against the doorway—I’ll never forget that sound. I felt nothing but relief as I watched him bleed out on that stained gray carpet in the lounge.
My only regret was that Aunt Martha was no longer alive to see him pay his dues. It was never proven, but I know he was the one who pushed her down the stairs that day. She didn’t deserve any of it.
So much for family.
I never bothered tracking my biological parents—if I was dead to them, they were dead to me.
My past was as bleak as my present.
With a sigh, I stare out the window, willing the storm to slow down so I can think, but the weather is as insubordinate as my unexpected guest.
It’s dark and chaotic out there. Rain still hammers on the roof relentlessly as the wind tugs at my shutters like the big bad wolf is trying to blow my house down.
I’m overly aware of the extra body in my space, but I try my best to ignore him as I force myself through my normal routine.
After putting the kettle on the stove, I add an extra spoon of coffee to the plunger, hoping for a miracle from the additional caffeine.
Nico doesn’t make any sound as I sip my black coffee at the kitchen counter, nor when I lock myself in the bathroom to scrub myself under the scalding water that has finally heated again.
No matter how hot I make the water, it’s not hot enough.
I can still feel that creep’s warm sticky cum dripping on my face despite having washed it off hours ago already.
The mere thought of that scene makes my stomach churn with disgust…and something else—a tingle of need that shouldn’t be there.
Why can’t I stop thinking about those dick piercings?
For fuck’s sake, Kiah.
I force the thought from my mind.
Fresh out of the shower, I throw on some denim shorts and a black tank top, gathering my wet hair in a messy bun on top of my head without bothering with a bra.
As an added bonus, I discover Nico’s knife stashed in the washing basket, and I take it with me. Just in case.
With a deep breath, I brace myself as I head to the bed I’ve been avoiding.
As much as I want to ignore Nico all day, I know I need to get that shard out of his shoulder. He may be a creep, but I don’t want him to die.
I don’t exactly have a clean-up team anymore; I’d have to dispose of the body myself.
The closer I get, the more apparent it becomes that something is wrong.
Oh, shit.
Nico’s skin has turned pale and clammy, his brow slick with sweat. His eyes are half-closed and glazed over.
The sight of the wound is even more alarming.
The area around the porcelain shard is angry and inflamed, a red, swollen mess that looks painfully tight.
The piece must have gotten lodged in deeper as he moved about.
Fuck.
I lean down, removing his gag, "Nico, can you hear me?"
The restrained man offers only a low grunt, his eyes drifting, unable to focus.
“Nico?”
The heat radiating off his body is unmistakable.
Fever.
This is bad.
I should’ve known, should’ve taken that shard out immediately.
Damn-it.
I’ve dealt with so many messy wounds during my years in the Marines; I know this is not the kind of thing you leave in.
But, in my defense, last night (this morning) didn’t exactly go according to plan.
Nevertheless, this asshole is not dying in my inn. I don’t need that kind of heat. Not when I’m supposed to be dead. The police will definitely come looking if a body washes ashore, and I can’t risk blowing my cover. Just the thought of finding a new hideout is exhausting.
“Hang in there," I mutter, trying to reassure both of us as I use Nico’s knife to free his arms from the duct tape.
Gathering supplies, I grab a clean towel, a bottle of water, and some antiseptic from the bathroom cabinet.
What I'm about to do could either help him or make things worse, but I have to do something .
Gritting my teeth, I soak the towel with water and kneel beside the bed to get a closer look at the wound.
"This is going to hurt," I say more to myself than to Nico, who seems beyond hearing.
The towel turns pink with diluted blood as I gently press the wet towel around the shard, trying to clean the area as best as possible without disturbing it.
I swallow hard, focusing on the task as I pour some antiseptic onto a clean part of the towel and dab it around the wound, praying it will do something to stave off the infection.
“Here goes," I whisper, wiping my sweaty hands on my shorts before gripping the shard. Forcing my breath past my lips in a steady flow, I slowly, carefully, begin to pull out the foreign object.
Nico jerks slightly, a strangled cry escaping his throat as the shard finally lodges free, coated in blood and something thicker—pus.
The sight makes my hungover body gag, but I force the bile down back into my stomach; I can’t afford to lose it now.
With the shard out, I can get a clearer look at the wound.
It’s bad—deep, with ragged edges and signs of serious infection. The skin around it is an alarming shade of red, and there’s a thin coating of yellow I wish wasn’t there.
I press the towel against the wound, trying to stem the flow of fresh blood and clean it as best as I can. "Come on, come on," I mutter, feeling the tension claw at my chest.
Nico’s breathing is shallow and fast, and he’s starting to shiver uncontrollably.
This isn’t good.
I grab the antiseptic again and pour it directly into the wound, watching as it foams and bubbles.
Nico moans in pain, but I have to keep going.
Using the remaining clean water, I flush the wound as thoroughly as possible, trying to remove any debris and pus—just like they taught me in the army.
This man needs proper medical attention, but there’s none on this island right now. I’m his best bet.
Thank fuck I always keep a well-stocked first-aid kit. An old contact from my past ensures I have all the meds I need, including some pretty strong antibiotics I’m going to have to force-feed this man.
But for now, that wound needs to be closed. So, I rummage through my art supplies for the sewing kit, grabbing a few other things I will need.
My mind is calm and focused as I sterilize the needle and tweezers over a candle flame, dousing them in antiseptic afterward.
It takes some effort, but I manage to get Nico to swallow a couple of painkillers and an aspirin. For what it’s worth.
Like I’m about to mend a sock rather than a man, I thread the needle with the cleanest, strongest thread I have, sterilizing the sharp metal again.
Oh god. This isn’t ideal. But there is no other option.
I take a deep breath, reminding myself of my training.
You can do this, Kiah.
Climbing on the bed, I position myself over Nico’s waist, straddling him, to get the best angle on the wound.
“This is going to hurt like a motherfucker,” I whisper without expecting a response.
There is none.
Working carefully but quickly, I begin suturing, stitching the edges of the wound together.
The cut is deep but not deep enough to reach muscle. He should be okay with external stitches only—I hope.
As the storm continues raging outside, the needle moves in and out of the bruised skin, my hands steady despite the situation.
One stitch, then another, until I’ve closed the entire length of the wound with about twelve more stitches.
Each pass of the needle through Nico’s skin makes him twitch and groan, but he doesn’t fully wake up.
When the jagged line of tiny stitches reaches the end of the nasty cut, I tie the thread off with secure knots, hoping it’s tight but not too tight to fuck with his circulation.
Finally, I smear a generous amount of antibiotic ointment over the sutures before wrapping up the wound as best I can with gauze and bandages.
That’s when I notice it—the familiar tattoo hidden among the other artworks on Nico’s fully-inked right arm.
No, it can’t be.
But it is.
Staring back at me is the Ricci family crest, clear as day, permanently etched onto Nico’s skin, just like every other member of that fucked-up family.
It was my job to know everything there was to know about the crime families. It’s what kept me alive, out of their way.
Surely, he can’t be a Ricci?
Not here.
Why is he here?
Holy fuck. This is worse than I thought.
If the mafia comes looking for him, it won’t end well for me.
I’m supposed to be dead, a ghost.
You never know what connections these assholes have. If they start pulling on the thread that is Kiah McClane’s identity, who knows how much they’ll unravel?
A bit of blonde hair dye only goes so far.
What if someone figures it out?
What if they realize that Jenna Cade didn’t die that night at the docks?
I put my hand on the feverish man’s head, silently begging for his recovery.
Please don’t die.