Caught

23.

I woke up on a small, uncomfortable sofa, my back aching and my hair pasted to my face, and as soon as I moved, an unpleasant tingling sensation began to run down my right leg.

I stretched my stiff joints and sat up. The white T-shirt I hadn't had time to take off was almost dry and all the mud and blood stains were showing through quite nicely.

Those red stains on my clothes reminded me of the events of the previous night, and my next glance went to the bed.

An empty bed.

Where's Shira?

It couldn't have been more than a few hours since I'd checked on him and given my patient another dose of pills. And then I must have fallen asleep on the sofa.

Before I started to panic, the sound of running water reached me from the bathroom. That calmed me down and I looked over at the chaos in the room.

Dirty clothes and shoes were strewn on the floor, along with a blood-stained towel, an empty glass and a neglected first-aid kit under the bed. The pile of unused bandages and disinfectant lay on the bedside table.

I reached down for my jacket, which was left on the floor, and pulled out the mobile phone and the gun I had stolen from the drunken soldier the night before.

On the wall, just below the ceiling, there was a small square opening that let fresh air into the room from outside. I stepped on the table, which creaked and swayed under my weight, and pulled out the grate. I managed to squeeze the two incriminating objects into the narrow shaft.

I felt bad about hiding anything from Shira, but I was practically a prisoner, and I didn't know how my black-haired captor would feel about me carrying a phone and a gun. And I needed some kind of reassurance, I couldn't blindly rely on someone else's help.

With a telephone I could contact the Resistance headquarters and tell them my situation. But not yet. Not until I had gathered more information. Plus, I needed to convince a certain Emperor's assassin to leave with me.

The door clicked open and Shira entered the room. Or rather, limped in.

He looked much better, not nearly as pale as last night, the bloodstains had disappeared from his face, the cut on the forehead barely noticeable. The blue-grey eyes, clear and calm, lit up when he smiled at me.

He was wearing a clean, dark t-shirt and boxer shorts. The pants he had clearly not been able to pull over the bandage on his thigh. Water trickled down his neck and shoulders from his wet hair.

"How do you feel?"

I didn't like the fact that he was back on his feet less than a day after being shot. He must be resting.

"Great," he smiled like sunshine.

"You should go back to bed," I said firmly, but his good mood was contagious. I couldn't frown at him and play the role of a strict nurse. I, too, was glad that he was feeling better.

"Only if you come with me," he winked at me, a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

Yeah, he was definitely feeling better.

He limped over to the sofa and sat down, supporting his injured leg with a pillow.

His eyes grew serious as he looked at me, "Something's wrong.

"What do you mean?"

He didn't answer right away, but I took the hint.

"The attack last night? You think it was a trap."

Shira tensed, suspicion written all over his face.

"I probably told you more than I remember."

"You talked about being outnumbered," I recalled his words, "about being surrounded and shot at. You were convinced that you had been set up."