I'm clutching at my stomach, hoping I don't bleed out on Archer's doorstep.

He's the last person

I want to ask for help, and he'll probably say no, but I've just been stabbed by the people I thought were
my friends, and I'd prefer coming here to dying. Though right now, the two might be connected.
Pulling my hand away from my wound is excruciating, and pain burns through me. If it weren't
for my stubborn pride, I'd cry out, but he has cameras and this is humiliating enough.
“Archer!” I call, my voice barely a rasp
The door opens before I can knock.
The annoyance himself leans against the doorframe, a playful smirk fixed on his face. But
surprisingly, he pales when he sees me, blood soaking my white shift and coating my hands. I know he
isn't afraid of blood, so it can't be that, but concern seems a little far-fetched.
“Who did this to you?” he asks, grabbing my arm with a surprisingly tight grip.
“What, you don't think I could do this to myself? That's awfully sexist,” I force, trying to smile
even though I'm definitely dying.
He swears under his breath. “I don't think this is the time for your pathetic sense of humor.”
“Pathetic? I'm not you, for heaven's sake.”
Archer rolls his eyes, helping me through the door. “We need to get you medical attention.
Clearly, you're delusional.”
“You aren't going to kill me?”
“Kill you? I wouldn't have to do much, and that takes all the fun of it. I'll save killing you for
when we're both up to it.”
“I thought you wanted me dead.”
He grunts, lifting me off the floor. He's surprisingly strong. And gentle, with the way he cradles
me in his arms, like I'm some broken doll. “If you died tomorrow, I wouldn't miss you, but I don't
necessarily want you dead.”
My entire world seems to be tilting, dragging me along with it. First, my supposed friends stab
me and leave me to die on the side of a cliff, then Archer is being uncharacteristically fearful of my
wellbeing. Maybe it's just the shock factor, that someone other than him is torturing me, and as soon as
it wears off he'll slit my throat.
“It seems like you're the one who's been stabbed, not me.”
He glances down. “Sage, you haven't been stabbed. You've practically been gutted.”
“Practically is not the same as actually. So, please get me medical attention before I actually die
in your arms.” His arms tighten around me, but I'm too focused on not dying to sort through what that
might mean. “I swear to god, if you're catching feelings for me, I'm going to stop fighting and just die.”
 “You are absolutely the most self centered person I have ever met. I am not falling in love with
you.”
“Good.”
“Please, if you know what's best for you, you'll shut up before you bleed out. This is a brand
new jacket, and I'd prefer it if you didn't die on it.”
“It's already ruined,” I grumble, staring at it. The black fabric has turned a delicious shade of
maroon.
“And this is why I should have left you to bleed out over my steps, instead of ruining my jacket.
I paid far too much for this.”
I think of his house, which is almost a castle. “You can spare a few dollars.”
“Try a few hundred. This velvet only comes from the Ostra region, importing it was a
nuisance.”
“Of course you spent hundreds of dollars on a coat.”
“Of course you spent two dollars on a dress. What are you even wearing?”
“You're critiquing my fashion sense right now? Besides, this is a shift. To be worn under a
dress.”
His face burns red. “You're telling me that you came here, barely dressed, and I've been
carrying you, barely dressed?!”
“I didn't have a lot of time to get changed into a gown that suited you.” Archer is quiet for a
while, staring straight ahead. His cheekbones could cut me, they're so sharp. It's a miracle I hadn't
noticed that before.
“Drugs or no drugs?”
“What?”
He sets me down on what feels like a table. No, it is a table. He's put me down on a table. Is it
too much to ask for a bed? He probably doesn't want me bleeding over his sheets.
“I'm about to sew you up, so would you like to be sedated or awake? I don't really care if you're
in pain myself, so either works for me.”
I'd kill him if I weren't dying myself. “I'm staying awake. I don't trust you to not sew poison into
me or something.” It hurts to talk. I don't know why I'm doing it so much.
He has the nerve to laugh. "I wouldn't go to all this trouble of helping you just to let you die."
Without warning, he pokes the needle through my stomach, and I scream, the pain ripping
through me. My hands fly to the edges of the table, gripping it tightly as he starts to stitch me up. My
eyes are shut so tightly that tears leak from the sides, trickling down my face. Every muscle in my body
is tense against the pain, which is so great that I may very well pass out.
 Time is strange when you're in this much pain. It drifts in and out like my consciousness, both
fast and slow, immeasurable in my delusion. I don't know how long it takes Archer to stitch me up, but
by the time he's finished my skin is burning, sweat dripping down the back of my neck.
"You look like death," he says, setting down the needle.
“I'm going to kill you.”
“I just saved your life. A thank you might be nice.”
“As if I'd ever thank you. Saving my life once doesn't account for all the times you tried to end
it,” I say, staring blankly at the ceiling. Looking down at him would take too much effort.
“You've tried to kill me too, so I think it's even.”
“I never tried to kill you. It was self-defense every single time.”
He shifts, the chair he sits on creaking loudly. “Self-defense? What about that time you broke
into my house and laced my drink with poison? I didn't prompt you at all that time.”
“That, dearest enemy, was part of my job. I'm an assassin, in case you forget, and someone hired
me to kill you that day. They were sorely disappointed when you foiled my careful plans.”
“Who on earth could possibly have wanted me dead? I'm a saint.”
“The person who hired me will remain nameless." I refuse to tell him that it was me who hired
me to kill him. "And you are not a saint. A demon maybe, something straight from the pits of hell,
pulled out to make my life a nuisance.”
He ignores me, instead sliding his arms under my knees and back. “Up we go.”
“What are you doing?”
"Taking you to a bed. You can't get better if you're sleeping on a table, and the faster you recover
the faster you can get out of here."
“Oh, now I'm special enough to deserve a bed," I growl, hissing in pain as he pinches the skin
under my knee. "What was that for?”
"You're making me regret saving your life."
We're going up the stairs. I twist in his arms to look down even though it hurts, but all I can see
is the rounded edge of his slippers. Oh god, I've caught him in slippers. This fact is too delicious to let
go.
“What happened to those patent leather boots of yours?” I smile despite the pain. “You wear
slippers with a thousand-dollar coat? And you were mocking me over my fashion sense.”
“These slippers are made out of the finest wool in Crinia. Don't disrespect them.”
“They still look stupid.”
He laughs, shifting me in his arms so he can open a door. "You are a child, you know that?”
“Archer, we're the same age.”
“And that scares me every day." It's a loaded statement, and I'm not sure what it means.
 He sets me down on a bed richly appointed with red sheets. Similar red curtains drape over the
bed frame. Even the pillows are red, a much darker shade than the rest of the bed, but still red.
“Red is my favorite color.” I don't know why I say it, but it spills from my mouth all the same.
“I know.” Two words. It's all he says, but it means everything.
Archer brushes my hair back onto the pillows. It's a soft touch. Gentle. Hesitant. I can't decide
if I want him to leave or stay. Maybe I'm dreaming, because this is not how enemies act. They don't
know each other's favorite colors, they don't stitch each other up, they don't wish the other
stayed with them as they sleep.
“Thank you," I whisper.
He doesn't say anything until I fall asleep.