Ruin (Rhodes #1) - Rina Kent Page 0,80
I stand before him. I take a deep breath to calm my insides before helping him out of his jacket. God. He’s become so thin, pale, and... sick. He can’t breathe straight, his chest raises and falls in an irregular pace.
The idiot. He needs help. What type of doctor is he?
He swallows a few times, his hand moves to unbutton his shirt. I push it aside, harsher than intended, and take over the task. “You’re obviously not doing well. Why would you discharge yourself? Oh, God—” My voice breaks at the view of a large bandage covering his torso, blood soaking half of it.
“It’s dried.” Aaron heaves. “Can you hand me the box on the nightstand?”
I keep glancing at the bandage, half expecting the dry blood to transform into the pool that surrounded Aaron the day he was shot. Shaking my heard, I give him the white box.
Aaron’s shaky fingers are unable to open the box. He curses after multiple tries, sweat beaming on his forehead. When he finally opens it, a few tiny bottles and new plastic needles come into view. Aaron’s lean fingers are too weak, they can’t rip the plastic off the bottles.
Witnessing his disastrous state should’ve made me happy. Others would mock him for it and revel in his distress, like he enjoys others’ weaknesses. Yet, I’m not that type of person. Seeing this version of Aaron feels like someone pierced through my heart and left a deep, painful hole in their wake.
“Do you want me to help?” I ask in a tentative voice. “I don’t know how, but I’m a fast learner.”
He releases a heavy sigh and hands me the box. He groans as he shakes his shirt away.
I swallow at the partial view of his chiselled muscles. Good lord. A bandage covers half of his chest, but he still doesn’t look bad. There are several scars marring his abdomen and upper chest. Are those knife cuts? This isn’t the first time he’s been hurt, is it? The black void in my heart expands at the thought. What kind of unfortunate life had he lived thus far?
“Mae.”
My attention snaps to the sound of my softly spoken name. Aaron heaves the next words. “I need that morphine now if you don’t mind.”
“Ah, okay.” I blurt, grabbing a syringe and a little bottle. “What do I do?”
I follow his clipped instructions of filling the syringe, releasing air and other technical terms.
He taps on a blue spot in his arm. “Disinfect. One go. Here.”
My hands tremble as I sit beside him. What if I fail and hurt him instead? I know nothing about medication, but I assume morphine is dangerous stuff.
“Hey, steady.” Aaron’s warm hands cover my shaky one. I don’t know if it’s because of the softness in his eyes, the calmness in his expression, or the warmth of his small smile, but my tremors subside a little.
God. He could’ve died. I could’ve never seen that smile again.
“I can do it.” My words are confident. This is the least I can do.
He releases my hand. “I may start blubbering after this. Never mind me.”
Once I inject him, he crawls into the bed. It doesn’t take him long to fall asleep.
I stand by his side and pull the cover over him. Black ink on the side of his left shoulder stops me in my tracks. A tattoo? Somehow, Aaron doesn’t strike me as a tattoos’ person, but what do I know, anyway? Surprises seem endless with this man.
I lean close. It’s a bar code of some sorts, the size of a finger. The only scribbled thing within it is the number ‘111’. I frown. What the hell is this? A branding? Does it have a special meaning?
“It’s an assassin’s identification code.” Tristan’s monotonic voice comes from the doorway. I jolt, swaying back. He nearly made my heart drop to my feet.
After standing straight, I blink. “Are you guys part of the mafia?”
“No.” He smiles, but there’s nothing happy about it. The pain and hatred in his eyes come through unmasked. “We were part of an organisation called The Pit. They kidnapped us as children and turned us into killing machines.”
“Oh, God.” I gasp before putting my hands in front of my mouth.
Tristan motions to the door. “Do you wish to know more? I’m sure Aaron isn’t into sharing the story of