Then, he turned around and slowly unbuttoned his jacket, letting it slide off his shoulders and onto a nearby chair.

Underneath, his white shirt was stained with a bright streak of crimson.

“The bathroom down the hall has a medical kit,” he murmured, his voice softer now.

I went to the bathroom, my heart pounding in my ears.

I found the black first-aid kit in the cabinet behind the mirror and walked back to the living room.

Arthur had removed his shirt, sitting on the edge of the leather sofa with his back slightly turned.

The cut on his shoulder was jagged, still leaking a slow trickle of blood down his muscular arm.

I sat down next to him, opening the metal box and pulling out a bottle of antiseptic and some clean cotton pads.

“This is going to sting,” I warned him.

“I have felt worse,” he said, though his body went rigid as I pressed the wet cotton to his skin.

I worked slowly, gently dabbing at the blood to clean the edges of the wound.