He figured it wasn’t going to do her any good to soft-shoe around the topic.
“You already are,” he said, easing back from his scrutiny of the knife wounds to make eye contact with Celeste. “You’re the person plotting to take the rest of us out.” The fabric of her stained tourniquet was a knotted ball passed between his hands. “If that’s what you really want…? Kill everyone and everything,” he swept his arm wide, “Send it to a hell dimension? And that’s where we’ll go,” he said, pointing between the two of their chests. “It’s the only kind that takes refugees… Then it’s going to get ugly for you first. There will always be someone coming to stop you.”
He backed away to get a first-aid kit out of his desk drawer and opened the metal box. They could get away with cleaning the cuts on her arm. He had a suspicion she’d broken at least one rib. He was prepared to fix that, too, if she let him.