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hanging on the other—but Carson tackled his side and then sunk his fist into his stomach. The dreadlocked man immediately crumpled to the floor, gagging for breath. Peyton kicked the knife far from his reach.
    Carson looked at her with murder in his eyes.
    "H-he's one of Gustave's thugs—kept an eye on the flat—" she stammered, taking an involuntary step backward at the look on his face.
    "Didn't I tell you to stay inside?" he said evenly.
    "Bloody hell," wheezed the dreadlocked man on all fours between them. "Bloody hell. Y'didn't have'ta do that, mate. Just doin' me job!"
    "You get the fuck out of here," Carson said. "Don't ever touch her again."
    The man crawled away from them till he reached the street corner. Then he got up, eyed them balefully, and then slunk around the street before disappearing into the night.
    "What the fuck is wrong with you, Peyton?" he demanded.
    "I got it!" she said, feeling oddly embarrassed somehow. "I was going to head-butt him, you didn't need to—"
    "I didn't?" Carson grabbed her arm and pulled it into the light. "Did you even know you were wounded?"
    "Oh," said Peyton, knees going weak at the sight of the slash against the forearm of her coat and the blood seeping through the wool.
    Some of the harshness left Carson's face at that. "Come on. Let's go back to the flat and get you cleaned up."
    He was quiet as they walked back to the building and up to their room, his hand light on her back in case she needed help. She considered protesting but felt reassured by it. She pressed her forearm tight to stop the bleeding.
    The TV was still on when they got inside. He remained quiet as he helped her ease off her coat and made her sit by the kitchen table to examine the wound. A rush of breath left through his nose.
    "It's not too deep; there's that," he said, in a voice full of resentment. He rummaged in one of the drawers and pulled out a kit with cotton balls, gauze, tape, iodine and assorted pills. "I won't need to sew it."
    "There's that," she agreed.
    "Your coat though. Nearly ruined." He gave her such a grandmotherly expression of disapproval that she bit her cheek to keep from smiling.
    He walked off to soak the coat sleeve in the bathroom. Then he filled a pan with water from the sink and began cleaning the wound with a kitchen towel. She watched him as he worked. He replaced the damp towel with cotton balls dabbed in iodine, but he kept his eyes averted, his expression still thunderous.
    "Carson…" she began, but didn't know what to add to that.
    He bound the wound tightly with gauze and secured it with tape. "You don't even know how close you…" He finally looked at her. " Now will you take me seriously?" He ran a hand through his curls. "I need to fix this and make sure that guy doesn't come after us. I'll fix the coat tomorrow. Will you promise me you'll stay here while I'm out?"
    She was stung at his exasperated tone, but underneath her wounded pride she was still shaky at the encounter. No escape attempts were in her immediate future. "What are you going to do?"
    He sighed heavily as he got to his feet and put the first aid kit away. "Something I'd rather not." He pulled his coat back on and cast her one last long look from the door. "Stay put, Peyton."
     
    It took a long time for Peyton's nerves to stop singing and her heart to stop feeling like it was forcing its way out here mouth, but in all that time Carson remained away. She took a fortifying bath (taking care to keep her injured arm dry), changed into a nightshirt, sank into bed and then let exhaustion take her.
    She was half asleep by the time she heard a key turn in the lock. The door to their flat opened and she could make out Carson's distinctive tread. From the bed she could smell him—a mix of his heady cologne and the reek of liquor and sweat. She heard him breathing heavily, too, as he walked across the room and stood in front of her.
    "Peyton?" he said softly. She did not stir, feigning deep sleep.
    He walked