Jasmine knelt in front of me on the living-room rug, her knees pressing into the worn carpet. She had a small first-aid kit open on the coffee table, the lid flipped back like a clamshell. A cotton pad soaked in antiseptic dabbed at the split in my lower lip, the sting sharp enough to make my eyes water. She tilted my chin with two fingers, gentle but firm, her perfume, something warm and vanilla, filling the small space between us. Every time the cotton touched the cut, I hissed through my teeth.
"Hold still," she murmured, swapping the pad for a clean one. "You're bleeding on my couch."
Kim stood at the window, one arm wrapped around her waist, the other hand pulling the curtain back just enough to peer out. Her reflection in the glass looked pale, eyes wide. She'd seen the whole thing—Guy's SUV, the bodyguards, me on the ground. Her shoulders were rigid, knuckles white on the curtain.
