Lachlan did not mourn the loss of his shirt as Krishna cut it away without even asking. It was hardly a sacrifice, given what good fortune the gods had granted them in their endeavour that night. He gladly watched it be cast aside onto a pile of paper, where the crimson stained fabric contrasted starkly against its white surrounds.
As Krishna cleaned his wounds, and prodded experimentally around their tender edges, Lachlan held his breath and gritted his teeth. “It does not feel as if there are any pieces of shrapnel still left behind. I would have felt them cutting into me on the ride over.”
Although it was true that Lachlan had felt no sharp gouging at his flesh as they fled to the pharmacist, he did not say that truth to answer Krishna’s question. It was said solely for Fiona’s benefit, and he would not chance her getting caught by Belmont because of him. “Finish your tea,” Lachlan urged her as she sat back down so abruptly, and his brow knitted together with concern he felt for her over his own wellbeing.
Wanting to know just how bad the situation was, Lachlan glanced back over his shoulder to look at Krishna. “How bad is it? Will you be able to hide the worst of the damage, so I am not found out in the morning?”