The next hour was a blur of adrenaline and iron-scented blood. Leo worked in the dim light of the bedroom, his surgical tools clinking against the tray. He had to be precise. The bullet hadn't stayed inside, but it had torn through muscle and skin.
Dante didn't scream. He gripped the edge of the mattress until his knuckles turned white, his breath coming in sharp, ragged hisses. Every time Leo looked up, he saw Dante watching him through half-closed eyes.
"Almost... finished," Leo panted, his forehead dripping with sweat. He carefully began the final row of stitches. He had never been this nervous during a surgery. Usually, a patient was just a body on a table. But Dante... Dante felt like a force of nature.
"Why... are you saving me?" Dante asked, his voice a low, broken whisper. "If I die, you're free. You and Sarah... you could disappear."
Leo stopped for a heartbeat. He looked at the man he was supposed to hate. "Because I'm a doctor. My job is to fight death, even if death looks like you."
Leo tied the final knot and cleaned the skin. He bandaged the wound with steady hands. As the tension left his body, he realized how close they were. Dante was leaning back against the pillows, his chest bare and muscular, covered in a thin film of sweat and the neat line of Leo's stitches.
"You're stable," Leo said, his voice soft. "You need to sleep."
Dante reached out, his large, scarred hand catching Leo's wrist. He didn't pull him away; he just held him. "You're a good man, Leo. Too good for a monster like me."
"I know," Leo replied, but he didn't pull his hand away.