In which Afton displays some impressive first aid skills.
Mason…
I did not talk to Afton that night.
Or the next.
In fact, it was five days before I returned home with a fresh gash on my ribs, another scar to add to the collection.
“How is she?” I’m still in my torn tactical suit, leaning against the entryway wall as Talon’s eyes widen.
“Sir, should I call the doctor? You’re bleeding.”
I look down irritably. “I must have popped a stitch.”
“What happened to you?” Afton is standing at the top of the stairs, gripping the banister. Her shocked gaze is traveling over my ripped suit and bloodstains. “Have you been shot?”
“Not this time.” I manufacture a reassuring smile for her. “Why don’t you go back to bed? I’ll be up in a moment.”
My wife is already halfway down the stairs. “Where is your first aid kit? The big one. And don’t tell me you don’t have one.”
The concept of her taking care of my wounds isn’t pleasant. I take care of these things myself. But it might soften her angry stance. “It’s in the kitchen.”
While she’s marching off in search of the first aid supplies, I send a slightly amused Talon home, though he’s attempting to hide it.
She’s laid out gauze, bandages, alcohol, and my suture kit by the time I get into the kitchen and she’s washing her hands. “Sit down. Can you take off your jacket?”
I’m wearing a torn tank top under the jacket and I pull that off too, as she bends closer to take a look at the bleeding gash. “So, someone already stitched you up and you’ve broken them open already? How long have you been bleeding?”
My lack of sleep and blood loss are catching up to me a bit. “I’m… not sure. This is unnecessary. I can patch this up myself.”
My wife is unimpressed. “Yeah, and then you can pass out from hemorrhaging half your body’s supply of blood and rip it open again. Sit down, please.”
I hold in a groan of relief as I sit back in the chair. “Have you sutured a wound before?”
The glance she gives me is not quite an eye-roll, but it’s close, and suddenly my palm itches. I should spank her for that, slap her pretty, pale ass red and watch it bounce. She has the perfect ass for it, round, beautifully shaped.
“My brother Sam? He was always coming home bleeding from something or another. A bar fight. A gunshot wound, that one I could stitch because it went through his shoulder.” Her warmth radiates over my sweaty, chilled skin as she carefully cleans the gash. “This looks really deep. Are you sure you don’t want a doctor?” She’s threading the needle with some skill, shehasdone this before.
“I’m fine.”
“Okay,” she shrugs. “Can I at least inject some lidocaine to numb this a bit?”
“It’s only a couple of stitches. It will hurt far less than when I was first stabbed.” Ah. I didn’t mean to let that slip.
She looks up. “Stabbed? What have you been doing for the last five days?”
“Can you do the stitches first?”
The little Bessie has the unmitigated gall to step back, still holding my suture thread. “No. Where were you? The only thing Talon would tell me was that you were handling a dispute.”
I shrug, wincing slightly. “Well, as you see, it was a dispute.”
“Yeah, but you’re the finance whiz in the family! I thought that meant someone broke a contract or something.”
“When there’s a direct threat to the family, we all step in.” I nod pointedly at my abdomen. “Are you stitching this, or am I?”
“Did that scar on your neck come from these people?”
