“So you aren’t mad?”
“No.”
“I hate to break it to you, but yousoundmad.”
I let out a low, rumbling breath and gaze at the sharp ripples in the stone above me.Where is my control? My calm facade?
“I am not mad at you, I—” I stop myself before I reveal more than necessary. “I am in pain,” I say awkwardly. She raises a brow, and somehow, that small action has me scramblingto take my words back. “The pain is fine, and I am not mad, I am grateful. Thank you.”
Why do I keep saying ‘thank you’?This human is confounding my sense of reason and testing my self-control. If I did not know better, I might assume she had some sort of dangerous pheromone that was affecting my mind.
“Well…” she trails off, cupping her elbow in one hand and tapping her lush lips with the other. “You’re welcome.”
A warmth spreads over my skin, and I quickly avert my eyes.
Discipline and control.
My wound needs to be closed. I should focus on that.
8
VELADOO
VEXAR
“WHERE IS THE thread?” I ask as I work to reposition myself until I can better see the wound spanning my torso. Now that the bleeding has slowed, the depth and severity of the gash is clear, and the sight has my stomach in knots.
“Why? Are you planning on sewing yourself up?” she asks, moving closer.
“I am.” I have no desire to hand my fate over to this … vexing stranger. “Now, can you find the thread for me?”
“No.”
My eyes slowly track up her body. “Did you just tell me, ‘no’?”
“Uh, yeah.”
The absolute nerve…
“Fine,” I growl as I push myself to a sitting position and start searching for the thread. My breath turns ragged as the pain intensifies, but I do not stop. I can handle pain. It is nothing new. The white sheetis stained with large patches of dark red that make identifying objects harder than it should be.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” She reaches for the side of the bed and scoops up a handful of small packets.
Is that the thread? Why would they put it in packets?
I reach for them, but she draws back.
“Really?” I ask, raising a brow.
“Are you a doctor?”
“No. Are you?”
She scowls, and my heart thuds wildly, as if I am enjoying her ire. But that makes no sense.
“If you sew yourself up, you’ll do a shit job and either give yourself an infection or a hernia.”
“What do you care if I give myself an infection or a hernia?” Whatever a hernia is.
