That and the heat coursing through his body, making him shiver so hard his teeth rattled in his head.And the guiltHe’d left her. She with the soft eyes and lovely heart and the lifeless body after…. Dear Christ, the pain…and the blessed blackness.Soft muttering in Arabic made his eyes fly open. Tarkan scrambled to sitting, kicking his legs, trying to get away from it, from them. Gentle looking female eyes observed him from above their face coverings. He opened his mouth to beg, to plead for no more pain. But they held no tubes, metal probes, or headphones, but a glass of water, a bowl with a washcloth, food. His stomach clenched which made the pain in this thigh flare in response. “Ow. Shit.” He muttered and pulled blood-stained fabric from his leg. He’d been shot. Yes. The gun. He’d used it. Used it on them.He fell back against the wall, propped by what felt like tons of pillows, a blessed change from the moldy straw that had served that purpose for so long. He stared at the women, still lined up like birds on a wire, motionless.
