Chapter 13
The sound of the vehicle outside snapped Blake’s head up.
After quickly reassuring Elise that it was just a friend, he stood and went to the door.
CCS had notified him Rook was nearing his location about ten minutes ago, but with Elise in his arms, struggling to regain her composure, he hadn’t wanted to bring up the fact they were about to have company.
The car eased to a stop in the shadows at the edge of the drive, headlights cutting out, engine ticking down.
Twilight came early this time of year, making this time of day dangerous.
Not day, yet not dark. The time of transition that could hide you one moment and highlight you the next.
He stepped outside into the cool Hungarian air, the scent of damp leaves and woodsmoke riding the breeze. A man unfolded from the driver’s seat, and even in the dim porch light, Blake caught the unsteady sway.
“Jesus, Rook.” He sprinted toward the car.
His friend’s grin was more grimace than humor. “What? Thought I’d stop by with dinner.”
Rook barely made it three steps before he pitched forward. Blake caught him, and the heat radiating off the man told him more than the pallor did. Sweat slicked his forehead despite the chill.
“You idiot,” Blake muttered, half-dragging him toward the cottage. “You’re burning up.”
“Eh. Bullet grazed me. Stings like a motherfucking bitch, but I’ve had worse.”
Blake snorted. “A graze doesn’t make you look like a drunken sailor on a three-day pass.”
Inside, he guided Rook into the kitchen, and Elise’s eyes widened as Blake lowered him into a chair. “What happened?” she whispered, already moving for a glass of water.
“Stay close. I’ll need your hands,” Blake said as he tugged Rook’s coat and bulky hoodie off.
The fabric peeled away, sticking to the crude stitches that had split open.
Blood had dried in jagged rivulets across Rook’s ribs.
Blake felt his jaw tighten. “Hell, Rook. You stitched yourself on a plane?”
Rook tried for swagger but failed. “Flight was long. I was bored, and the old lady next to me fell asleep, so there was no company.”
“Yeah, nothing screams in-flight entertainment like needle and thread in your gut. Don’t move, and don’t fucking say a word.
” Blake bolted upstairs for the medical kit he’d kept stashed in his suitcase, years of habit paying off.
He was downstairs within twenty seconds.
The snap of plastic clasps sounded loud in the tense kitchen.
Rook squinted at him. “What happened to bedside manner? I was expecting sympathy. Maybe a sponge bath or at least an introduction.”
Blake shot him a look as he cut away the clumsy sutures. “From me? You’re delirious.”
“I’m Elise,” she said from behind him.
“Rook.” The man tried to smile at Elise, who set the water down beside Rook and hovered close.
“That’s a bullet wound.” Her voice was calm, but her eyes tracked every movement, sharp as ever.
Blake didn’t glance up, though he felt her scrutiny. “Sure as hell is.” He pressed sterile gauze down, firm enough to make Rook hiss.
“Careful, Blake. You’ll make me cry in front of the lady,” Rook muttered.
“You’ll live. Maybe.” Blake leaned closer, cleaned around the wound, working fast but precise. His hands didn’t shake. They never had, not with blood, not with this. Too many nights back at the compound, his mother teaching him triage while his father drilled Guardians until dawn.
Elise crouched opposite him, her gaze flicking from the instruments to Rook’s pinched face. “How did this happen?”
The pause was brief, but Blake felt it. He met Rook’s eyes over the man’s shoulder, the unspoken conversation sharp and wordless. Don’t. Not now.
Rook broke first, lips twisting into something resembling a smile. “Wrong place, wrong time. Some drunk with bad aim. But nothing that I can’t deal with.”
“Never try to stitch anything again, Rook. You suck at it.”
“Hey, I think I did a good job. It stopped bleeding … mostly, and I made it all the way to the store in Budapest before it ripped open again. Although I’m kind of woozy.”
“When was the last time you ate anything?”
“I dunno. What’s the date?”
“The fourteenth,” Elise replied.
Rook grunted. “I think I should probably eat something. Been about a week.”
“You didn’t eat on the plane?” she asked.
“Ah, no.” Rook shook his head slowly. “No can do. Nope. Not happening.”
“Why?”
“Because he didn’t know who made it or what was in it,” Blake said as he started to stitch up the wound.
“What does that matter?”
“Ahh …” Rook decided against answering.
“He’s got a phobia,” Blake said, still working.
“What? I’ve never heard of that.”
Blake glanced up at her for a second, “Really? He’s the third person I’ve known who had issues with food.”
Elise handed him the scissors when he asked for them. “You mean you have an eating disorder? Like Bulimia?
Rook snorted. “Kind of.”
Blake tied another stitch, making him grunt. “You’re welcome.”
Rook exhaled hard, sweat dripping down his temple. “You always sew this tight? Thought you were patching me, not upholstering a couch.”
“Quit whining. You’ll thank me when you don’t bleed out all over my kitchen.” Blake tied off the last knot and trimmed it clean.
Elise straightened, wiping her hands on a towel. Her brow was furrowed, suspicion simmering under the surface, but she didn’t push. Not yet, but Blake knew she would.
“You should rest,” she said, quieter now. “You’re burning up.”
Rook smirked, even pale as death. “Nah. I’m fine. Besides, I have my own place just down the road.”
Blake shook his head, packing away the bloodied gauze. He felt Elise’s eyes still on him, questioning. She was too smart not to see through the flimsy cover story, but she’d hold the questions until they were alone.
The storm was coming. Blake could feel it pressing on the walls of the cottage, heavy and inevitable. But tonight, he had one job. Keep his friend alive.
Blake stripped off the bloodied gloves and tossed them into the waste bin under the sink. The smell of antiseptic stung the air, cutting through the faint woodsmoke drifting in from the old fireplace he’d coaxed back to life earlier.
“Soup in the car?”
“Yeah.” Rook nodded and swallowed hard. “Probably should have some.”
“I’ll go get it.” Blake was out and back in less than a minute. He put two cans on the counter.
“Elise, please open one of the cans of soup so he can see you work and heat it up.”
Blake washed the pot she’d use while she opened the can. Rook leaned back in the chair, head tilted against the wall, his breathing uneven but stubbornly steady. His color hadn’t improved. If anything, the gray pallor made the sweat shining on his brow look worse.
“Don’t pass out on me,” Blake warned, crouching to check the dressing one more time. “You’re not dying in some kitchen on the outskirts of Budapest.”
Rook cracked an eye open, a smirk tugging weakly at his mouth. “You always were the nurturing type.”
“Yeah, nurturing enough to knock you out if you argue with me again.”
The corner of Rook’s mouth twitched. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Blake almost laughed, but Elise was still there.
She was leaning against the counter now, waiting for the soup to warm.
Her arms were folded, her sharp gaze flicking between them.
She’d kept quiet through most of the procedure, but silence with Elise meant her mind was cataloging every detail, filing away inconsistencies like evidence for an article she hadn’t yet written.
“Cup or bowl?” she asked after a moment.
“Cup, please. Havoc?” Rook looked at him.
“Got it.” Blake grabbed a cup out of the cupboard and washed it with enough soap and hot water to clean the entire cottage … twice. When he was finished, Elise gave him a concerned look but poured the soup into the cup. She handed it to Rook, and his friend thanked her.
Rook sipped it slowly but steadily. Blake finished putting his medical kit back together while Rook ate. “Didn’t realize it had been so long. I was focused on other things.”
“Like getting shot.” Blake took the cup for him and refilled it with the remaining broth.
“You both make it sound normal,” she said at last. “Just a note … it isn’t. Not getting shot and not performing minor surgery in the kitchen.” Her tone wasn’t accusing. It was more curious and probing, but it tightened something in Blake’s chest anyway.
“Normal is relative,” Blake answered evenly as he checked the bandage around Rook’s wound.
Rook cleared his throat, drawing her focus back to him. “He’s exaggerating. Happens when you’ve got a mother who’s an ER doc. Every scratch looks like a crime scene with him. I think he likes to play doctor.”
“That wound isn’t a scratch,” Elise replied, her voice calm but steady. She took a step forward, refusing to back down. “And you don’t get shot by accident. Not in Budapest. Not in Antwerp. Not in places where I keep finding bodies in my notes.”
Blake met Rook’s gaze again. Another silent exchange, this one heavier.
Hold the line. Don’t give her the truth.
Not yet. “Well, I wasn’t in those places, so you're lucky, but … just thinking out loud here, maybe the bodies are a sign you should avoid traveling with Blake,” Rook said, attempting humor through gritted teeth.
Blake sighed, shaking his head. “You need to sleep, and you aren’t traveling any farther tonight. Besides, you’re useless right now.” Blake grabbed Rook’s arm and helped the man stand. “Up the stairs. You’ll sleep in my room tonight.”
“Seriously, I can drive a half a mile.” Rook tried to pull away from Blake, but Blake pressed the slightest amount on the man’s ribs, and Rook gasped for air and almost dropped to the ground.
“And that wasn’t anywhere near the wound.” Blake looked at his fellow assassin, who raised a shaky hand in mock salute.
“Orders received, boss.”