I could end all this by ending him.

I could do it.

Except I really, really can’t.

I’m so fucking angry with myself when I duck down, yank his jacket from his shoulders, and turn to his shirt instead.

“The fuck—” St. Clare tries to slap my hands away. “—you doing?”

“I need your shirt.”

“Fuck off.”

I go for his buttons again, and again, he slaps my hands away. I hit his back, and he shoves me, and before I know it, we’re fucking wrestling against the pavement as I try to get his shirt off and he tries to stop me.

“I’m trying to …” I pant, holding off a hit to the head. “Help you.”

“You shot me!”

I belt his shoulder. “Why are you so hung up on that?”

“Hung up? It happened a few minutes ago.” He sends a strong kick to my thigh, but I grab his leg with the hand holding my gun and manage to pin both his wrists to his chest with the other. We’re both panting, both glaring at each other, and he’s looking really worse for wear now.

“I need your shirt so I can tie it around your head. To stop the bleeding. They do it in movies all the time.”

He’s still glaring, slightly shaking, breathing an uneven mess as he slowly nods. I’m half expecting him to attack when I slowly release my hold on him, but he doesn’t, and I take it as a good sign.

I set the safety and tuck my gun back into my pants before going for his buttons again. He lets me this time. He doesn’t say anything, and the lack of conversation is starting to make things really, really awkward. I’ve never undressed a man before, and sure this might be a life-or-death situation, but I’m not sure that makes it any easier.

“Why are you sneaking around a dark alley anyway?” I ask him, tugging the shirt from his shoulders. “I couldn’t not take a shot when you went to the trouble of setting it all up for me.”

He doesn’t answer, and I try not to hold it against him.

“You really made this more difficult than it had to be, you know? If you’d just let me kill you …”

If anything, his glare gets glarier.

At least he lowers his hand when I lift the shirt, and his cringe of pain as I set it in place gives me a quick break from his death stare.

I should probably tell him I have no clue what I’m doing, but it doesn’t seem right to freak him out anymore. So I do what I can, hope it’s enough, and once I’ve got the thing tied tight to his head … I make the mistake of looking down at him.