Chapter 6 I steer Vesper through the glossy revolving doors of Saks Fifth Avenue. It's amusing how much she loathes having my hand on the small of her back. In some ways, I think she'd prefer the gun. She's smart enough not to pull away or cause a scene, though. That would end poorly for her. The department store is almost comically bright after the dim fluorescents and red emergency lights of the hospital. White marble floors, glass cases sparkling with jewelry, perfume girls hovering around their stations like moray eels, ready to snap a bite if we wander too close. "This is ridiculous," Vesper mutters under her breath. "So you've said. Several times now." "And I'll keep saying it until you realize how absurd this situation is. I'm fine in my scrubs." "You're not. You look like you just walked out of a hospital-which you did." "So what?" I lean in close, my mouth near her ear. "So if the hospital reports you missing, every cop in the city will be looking for a woman in blue scrubs." Her jaw tightens, but she doesn't argue further. I scan the store. It's all brightly colored rags and blank-eyed mannequins with their tits out. These kinds of places repulse me. Just an ocean of cheap fast fashion everywhere you look. Growling, I shove her toward the closest rack of dress. She stiffens under my hand. "I'm not wearing a fucking ballgown." "Ballgown, pantsuit, fucking clown costume-I don't give a shit what you choose, but pick something." She rolls her eyes at me. "This is outrageous." "Would you prefer I pick for you?" She understands quickly that it's a threat. Another point in her favor. "Fine," she mutters. "You don't have to be a dick about it, though." She begrudgingly selects a few items-dark jeans, a cream-colored blouse, and a navy blazer. Her choices are practical, understated. I add a pair of low heels to the pile. "I don't need those." "Yes, you do." Our eyes lock in a silent battle of wills. Eventually, she looks away first. A saleswoman approaches us, all smiles and professionalism, though her eyes sweep over me and light up with dollar signs like a casino slot machine. "Finding everything okay?" "We need a dressing room," I tell her with a charming smile. "My wife has an interview later today, and we're in a bit of a rush." I've never had an issue with lying. It's part and parcel of my profession. This lie, however, slips off my tongue with ridiculous ease, and leaves behind a faint but unsettling simmer in its wake. My wife. Too easy to say that. Way too fucking easy. The saleswoman softens instantly. "Of course! It would be my pleasure. Right this way." She spins around to lead us toward the back. I take one step after her. But when I look back, Vesper isn't following. "Now what?" I ask. "What's wrong with you?" "Nothing." "We don't have time for this bullshit." I grab her by the upper arm and start to drag her along. But no sooner has my hand clamped around her bicep than does she suppress a hissed scream. I turn back around. "What was that?" "Nothing." "You women and 'nothing,'" I spit. "As if it's the only fucking word you⁠-" But when I see it, I stop talking. I reach out and peel back the collar of her scrubs. There's a dark stain spreading across her shoulder, blood seeping through the thin fabric, staining her pale skin with a dark, tacky crimson. "That's not nothing." She tries to shrug away, tries not to show me her bottom lip trembling. I don't let her get away with either one. "It's fine." I examine the injury. It looks like shrapnel, maybe from a bullet or the spray of an exploding tile. A tiny prickle of subliminal guilt bubbles up low in my gut. "You should've said something." "Oh, I'm sorry. Between being held at gunpoint and kidnapped, I guess I forgot to mention my minor flesh wound." I grab a handful of clothes off the nearest rack without bothering to look at it. "We need to take care of that." "I'm a doctor, remember? I can handle it myself." "With what supplies? You planning to perform surgery with clothes hangers?" She glares at me. "I don't need your help." "Too bad. You're getting it anyway." The attendant looks up with a bright smile when we join her at the dressing room door. "One room or two?" "One." Vesper's eyes widen. "Two. We need two." I smile at the attendant. "One is fine." The woman gives us an uncertain look but unlocks a large dressing room. I push Vesper inside and lock the door behind us. "Are you insane?" she whispers furiously. "Take off your shirt." Her mouth drops open. "Excuse me?" "I need to see the wound, and since you insist on making me give you choices, it's either this or I rip the scrubs off of you. One way or another, though, Doctor, that shirt is coming off." "I told you I'm fine." "And I told you I'm taking care of it." I drop the wadded-up ball of clothes on the bench and face her directly. It's small enough in here that I can smell her-the waft of floral perfume, the tang of blood and sweat. Her back is against the mirror. Nowhere to retreat. We stare each other down for a long minute. Vesper's nostrils flare with every exhale. But little by little, the animal in her recognizes that she's trapped. There's only one way out of this corner: submit. So, with a sigh, all the fight goes whistling out of her. "You're unbelievable," she says. "I've been called worse." "Oh, I believe that for sure." She snatches up the topmost article of clothing, then glares at me. "Turn around." "No." "You can't be serious." I lean against the door, arms crossed. "Dead serious." With a muttered curse, she turns her back to me and yanks off her scrub top. The movement makes her wince again, confirming my suspicion that the wound is worse than she's letting on. She lets the scrub top dangle from her fingertips before it falls to the ground. I glance at it. It's soaked through with blood. More than I realized during my earlier peek. I step forward. She startles when my palm comes to cup the uninjured side of her neck. "Hold still," I order in a heated whisper. "This is humiliating," she says, but stays in place. Using the dirtied scrub as gauze, I carefully dab away the wet blood as best as I can. She hisses at the sting. "For a doctor," I remark, "you're a terrible patient." "For a kidnapper, you're an annoying nurse." I bite my tongue so I don't smile. But when I look up in the mirror in front of us, I see her watching my face. I've never been the type to give a fuck what others think of me, and I sure as hell am not changing now. The mix of fear and awe in her face is an interesting one, though. Her perfume is nicer when I'm this close. Less drug-store clearance rack and more subtle than I first suspected. Heavy on the vanilla. I don't mind. With the blood mostly wiped away, the spray of freckles across her collarbone shines through like stars at night. Her skin is flushed and supple beneath my touch. Without thinking, one finger traces lightly along the cliff of her shoulder and winds down to the soft patch at the crook of her elbow. The wound isn't so bad, all things considered, but I still find myself wondering if maybe I ought to check the rest of her. Make sure no other bullets went ricocheting in the wrong direction. If the skin beneath her bottoms is as velvety as the skin along the curve of her throat. If⁠- I clear my throat. "Put this on." I hand her a simple black dress from the pile I grabbed. She takes it without looking at me, slips it over her head. Then she undoes the drawstring cord of her scrub pants, shimmies them down, and steps out of them. She looks absurdly proud of having changed without showing me much of anything. Slowly, she turns until she's facing me properly, not my reflection. "How long do I have to stay with you?" "Until I say you can leave." Her eyes flash again. "That's not an answer." "It's the only one you're getting." She nods, unimpressed, unsurprised. "Well, I'm dressed. So what's next on today's fun little excursion?" "Good question." I tilt my head. "Are you hungry?" "No." Right on cue, her stomach rumbles. I laugh and nod. "That's what I thought. We're going to dinner," I decide. "After that, I'll figure out what to do with you." I'm halfway out the door when she speaks. "You can't keep me, you know," she says. Her voice is husky, hushed, saying too much and not enough all at the same time. I look at her reflection in the mirror. The black dress suits her. The fire in her eyes suits her even more. So I shrug. "Why not?"