Shifting, I feel my feet bitterly complaining. “Then let’s keep moving, aye?”
Lucas helps me up, standing close to me and so tall that he blocks the sun. “How are you feeling? Are ye sure ye dinnae want to rest?”
Bitter, angry Catriona surges up.He dinnae get to be concerned about me. He fecking left.
“I’m fine.” Pulling away, I march toward the stream.
Despite my belief that I’m in kick-arse shape, I’m wheezing like a geriatric who lost their walker by the time we stop for the night. Lucas has been eyeing me with concern and it’s making me crabbit.
“I saw a lot of Zemmouri rabbit tracks downstream.” He’s screwing a silencer on to his gun. “I won’t be long.”
Waving a hand at him, I nod, focusing on trying to stay upright. “Grand.”
***
Crabbit - Scottish slang for pissed off, or cranky.
Chapter Eleven
In which agony comes in colors.
Catriona…
It hits without warning.
I’m not bending or twisting, or trying to pick something up, the usual offenses. The agony just hits me like a sledgehammer and I crumple to the ground, flimsy as tissue paper.
“What’s wrong?”
Lucas is on me in seconds, running his hands over my spine, probably feeling the spasms tearing through me. I can feel the dirt and rocks against my cheek and it’s the only thing grounding me in this reality. The rest of me is screaming silently, begging to be somewhere else, out of this fragile fecking body that betrays me.
“Ye haven’t had any medication, have ye?” He sounds angry. My back is on fire, the burn tearing up my spine. I’m sobbing silently, gritting my teeth to hold back my screams.
“Mmm- no,” I gasp. “Not going to tell mykidnapper- ah,god!”I’ve only thrown up from the pain a couple of times, but my stomach is surging up my throat and I can’t hold it back, groaning in humiliation as he holds my hair back and wipes my mouth like I’m a wee fecking bairn.
“I’ve got ye, shhh… brave lass.” His thumbs push into the pressure points by my L1 and L2 on my spine and the agony recedes just enough to let me breathe, panting and desperate for air. “Let’s get ye settled. Cold helps, aye? I’m going to put ye in the stream.” He scoops me up in his arms while I twist and arch, trying to get away from the fire consuming me from the inside out.
The sudden shock of cold makes me curl up like a potato bug, and he sets me on his lap, working his fingers along my spine. “So brave. Ye never scream, do ye? Just fighting it. I got ye. Try to take some deep breaths. Dr. Tennant says it helps unlock the muscles, remember? Breathe now, brave lass.”
Pain comes in colors.
From the yellow, the twist and ache in my back, to orange, simmering along my spine that I can barely function through, then the bloody red of a full-blown series of spasms where I can’t think or move without wanting to howl like a wounded animal.
Then, there’s blue. Aqua blue cold seeping intomy skin, my muscles, down to my core. The icy stream flows through me, pushing back the red. Just a little. The burn is still there, lingering like a demon called up from the Underworld, but it’s retreated a bit.
I tuck my face into the little space where his neck meets his shoulder and try to pull in some air. He smells like the forest, and old leather, like always. I could never forget his scent. He rubs my back, murmuring soothing nonsense until I can take a deep breath without choking it back out again.
“Your teeth are chattering, I have to get ye out of the water,” he finally says, sounding regretful like freezing his arse off in a frosty mountain spring forever would be grand.
“Oh- oh- okay,” I manage.
“I’ve got ye.” He stands up, as if holding me is no hindrance. I can feel his biceps coil as his grip tightens and he brings me under some trees, the ground soft from years of fallen pine needles. “We’re far enough from the last town to chance a fire,” he says, rooting through his backpack. “Let’s get ye in some dry clothes.”
The only clothes available are his, and I canna uncurl from my crab-like position, so he has to help dress me. He does, expressionless, and I’m grateful for it. I canna stand pity. This is humiliating enough. I know I must look ridiculous in his black jeans and a shirt. Theysmell like him, though, and it’s comforting.
“The next town is about six kilometers away,” he says, consulting his Garmin. “I’m getting ye settled and I’ll run in when it gets dark.”
Looking up at the sky, I can see the sun lingering just above the horizon. “Look, ye canna do that.” At least I don’t sound like I’m holding back a scream anymore. “It’s too dangerous. Ye know Dubois owns every little town from here to Marrakech. I’ll be fine. Let me just catch my breath.”
