Rhett wipes his blade on the dead guy’s shirt. “He did.”
We keep moving.
The walk to the cabins is hell. Colton’s breathing gets more uneven with each step. At the edge of the woods, I see the way his face goes slack, lips blue, and I know he’s circling the drain.
Isolde is already in the kitchen when we crash through the cabin door. Her face goes white, but she doesn’t freeze. She looks at Colton—his shirt black with blood, head rolling—and all she says is, “Table. Now.”
She sweeps books and a glass off the surface with one hard motion. The glass shatters, but she ignores it, rolling up her sleeves to the elbow. I take over holding Colton with Julian. Rhett is beside her in a flash, pulling out his trauma med kit from under the sink and dumping its contents.
Dahlia stands in the doorway, gun still in hand. Her lips are tight and she’s tense. She watches everything, but doesn’t move.
We lift Colton onto the table, one set of hands under his knee, one under his armpit. He barely reacts, just groans as his back hits the wood. Isolde’s hands are already at the wound, pressing, probing, not caring about the fresh blood that soaks her skin.
Rhett tears open a packet of gloves, hands a pair to Isolde. She puts them on with her teeth, never looking away from the wound.
“It’s a through-and-through,” Rhett says, voice brisk. “Entry’s high, exit’s out the back. Missed the artery, but he’s lost a lot.”
Isolde nods. “We’ll need to cauterize, or he’ll keep leaking.”
Julian’s in the corner, pacing and swearing under his breath. He’s useless now, spent. I ignore him.
Dahlia moves closer, eyes fixed on the table. I can see her jaw trembling, but her hand doesn’t drop the gun.
Isolde slices the bandage away with a kitchen knife. The wound is ugly. I see meat, tendon, the gleam of wet bone. Colton hisses, then bites down on his own wrist to muffle the sound.
Rhett pours whiskey over the wound. It splashes, stings. Colton almost kicks Issy, but I catch his ankle and pin it.
Isolde presses gauze to the wound, hard. “Hold this,” she snaps at Dahlia.
Dahlia flinches. Then, slow, she puts the gun down and steps in, hands shaking. Isolde grabs her wrist, shows her where to press. Dahlia obeys, lips pressed white, knuckles digging into the blood.
Rhett fires up the old gas stove, grabs a metal spatula, and jams it into the blue flame. It sizzles, heating fast.
Rhett brings over the spatula. The metal is red hot. “Ready?” he says.
Colton is barely conscious, but he nods.
Isolde looks at Dahlia, who still has her hands pressing the wound. “You can let go.”
Dahlia steps back, wipes her hands on her skirt, then just stares at the blood smeared across her palms.
Isolde takes the spatula. “Hold him,” she tells me.
I brace Colton’s chest with both arms.
She presses the spatula to the wound. The sound is animal: flesh searing, a hiss, a scream. Colton thrashes, but I hold him down. The cabin fills with the smell of burnt hair and flesh.
Isolde works the spatula, sears both sides, then throws it in the sink. Colt passes out cold. She puts a hand to his neck, counts the pulse.
“He’s gunna be fine,” she says. Not a question, not a hope. Just fact.
Rhett looks at her, then at me. “Coulda stitched it, but he’s lost a lot. We’re gunna need to monitor. Don’t have IV here so we’ve got to get him to the hospital somehow.”
Dahlia leans against the fridge, still staring at her hands.
Julian sinks onto the floor, back to the wall, head in hands.
Isolde cleans her gloves, wipes her brow with her forearm, then turns to me. “You’re bleeding.”
