He'd helped deliver my baby, for God's sake. Surely a few stitches were no big deal to him, right? If this wound was serious, I'd have passed out already.
I can see the internal struggle play out on his face. His medical training versus what he knows is true. He knows I'm right. Trent doubtless has contingency plans in place in case his girlfriend failed.
He finally drops his jacket into my arms and begins pulling off his shirt. The bloodstains hardly stand out against the deep red of the material. I stare at the rippling muscle of his chest, distracted from the pain in my leg for a moment. He's even nicer to look at than I imagined. The rain dews on his chest, running in tiny rivulets down his pectorals and into the grooves of his rock-hard abs. A trail of dark hair leads down into the vee just above his low-riding slacks. For just a moment I imagine what must be under the material, and it makes my mouth water.
He drops to his knees in front of me, shoving the material of my dress up so he can get a good look at the wound. My heart skitters wildly when his hands brace my thigh. I want them just a little higher, so he can feel just how much his touch affects me. He binds it around my leg. It's not tight enough to be considered a tourniquet, but it at least stops more blood from slopping down my leg.
He pulls his jacket on once more and leaves it hanging open for a second. He looks like he belongs on a catalogue for men's wear. I haven't been this affected by a man in well...ever. Not even Cruz. Certainly not with Damian.
"Come on," Ryker growls, though I know his frustration isn't aimed at me. This time. "Let's take this to your house. I don't think you want Cruz to see this just yet."
I nod. I don't want to explain this to Cruz. They can wait a few hours until this has been dealt with.
It hurts like a son of a bitch to sling my leg over the side of the bike. I seize Ryker around the waist, hands running along the curve of his abs. It's a struggle not to do more. Even through the pain, I want to touch every inch of him.
He wraps one hand around mine and squeezes tight before returning it to the handlebar. Then he guns the engine and sends us hurtling into the night.
10
Ryker
My blood is boiling by the time we reach Cleo's small apartment on Pine. I don't even bother to secure the bike beyond pulling it beneath her carport. I have far more pressing matters at the moment.
I scoop Cleo off the seat the moment we're stopped, pulling her tight against me. She's shivering, though if it’s from cold or fear, I can't tell. She slings her arms around my neck, hauling herself even closer to me. I pound up the stairs, releasing one hand from her back to jiggle the door open. The screen door always sticks.
The house is cold. Cleo had turned off the air after retrieving her things. No need to up the power bill. It'll be harder to tell if she's gone into shock this way.
I deposit her on the brown couch and order; "Stay."
I've been to Cleo's place often during her pregnancy. I know just where she keeps her aunt's old things. I'm counting on finding some needle and thread in the back. I take several tries to find what I'm looking for, and it takes another few minutes to find the first aid kit, alcohol, and cotton balls I need.
Cleo's face is ashen beneath the usual tawny cast of her skin.
"You're angry," she whispers.
"Fucking furious. But not at you. I need to get a good look at this, Cleo. Hang on."
There had been too much blood to get a good look at it before, which makes me leery of the choice to bring her here. She really needs a hospital and an actual doctor. When I unwrap the cut it's still oozing, but a swipe of gauze reveals it's not as deep as I first assumed. If her attacker had hit an artery, the wound would spurt blood. Even venous blood would run out faster than this. It's likely a superficial wound. I breathe out a sigh of relief.
It doesn’t mean this will hurt any less. I dig into the first aid kit and pull out a packet of ibuprofen. I rip it open with my teeth and offer it to her. The tablets tumble into her palm and she stares at them. "What's this?"
"Pain medication. This will hurt."
She goes paler, if that's even possible. She swallows the pills dry and makes a face before getting a grip on her couch cushion. Now, for the hard part.
I hold the thin needle up to the light and pull out my lighter. There are better ways to sterilize it, but we must settle for quick and dirty for the time being. I heat the needle and when I'm satisfied, swab it with alcohol, just to be sure. Then I guide the nylon thread into the needle and hold it up for her inspection. Cleo's swallow is audible.
"What are you doing?"
"Making sure this is clean. Less chance of infection later."
"Oh." The small gasp of sound makes me look up at her, and I offer her a forced smile.
"It won't be so bad. Hang on to the couch cushions. This shouldn't take too long."
I hold the puckered edges of the wound together and brace myself before piercing her perfect tawny skin. As expected, she draws in a sharp breath. I'm grateful she doesn't scream, though. I'm not sure if I can take it.
The wound takes six stitches to close. I tape sterile gauze over the wound to prevent any further oozing. Cleo's eyes are swimming with tears by the time I'm through. I sit up on my knees and cradle her face in my hands. I want to kiss her so badly I can taste it. Instead, I lean my forehead into hers.
