I’ve never stitched a wound before. The Enclave taught us basic first aid, of course—Omegas are expected to care for minor injuries in their Alpha’s household—but nothing this serious. Nothing that could mean the difference between life and death.
But there’s no one else here. No one else to do this. Just me.
I take another deep breath, steadying my hands. “Okay,” I whisper to myself. “You can do this. It’s just like sewing fabric. Except the fabric is a person. A person who could die if you mess up.”
Not helpful.
I force the panic down, focusing on the practical steps. Clean the wound. Thread the needle. Stitch the torn flesh together. Simple in theory, terrifying in practice.
The antiseptic stings my nose as I clean around the wound, carefully wiping away dried blood. Cillian doesn’t stir, which is both a blessing and a concern. I’d rather he remain unconscious for this, but his lack of response to pain is worrying.
Threading the curved suture needle proves challenging, my fingers trembling slightly. It takes three attempts before the thread slides through the tiny eye. I position myself beside the bed, needle poised above the torn section of the wound.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, though I know he can’t hear me. “This is going to hurt.”
The needle pierces his skin, and I wince in sympathy, but Cillian remains motionless. I pull the thread through, creating the first stitch, then another, working as quickly as precision allows. The process is oddly intimate—this careful mending of another person’s flesh, this literal holding together of someone who’s falling apart.
By the third stitch, my hands have stopped shaking. By the fifth, I’ve found a rhythm, a strange confidence born of necessity. The wound closes beneath my fingers, the bleeding slowing and then stopping altogether.
I tie off the last stitch, cutting the thread with a small pair of scissors from the kit. The repair isn’t pretty—nothing like the neat, professional work that was there before—but it’s holding. The wound is closed. The bleeding has stopped.
I clean away the fresh blood, apply antibiotic ointment, and wrap a new bandage around his torso. My hands move with a surety I didn’t know I possessed, as if they’ve done this a hundred times before.
Perhaps in another life, I think, I might have been a doctor. A healer instead of a prize to be claimed and protected. The thought is both comforting and bitter.
With the immediate crisis addressed, I allow myself to really look at Cillian. His face is gaunt, cheekbones sharp beneath too-pale skin. Dark circles shadow his eyes, and his lips are chapped from dehydration. He needs fluids, nourishment, proper care.
I spot a bottle of water on the nightstand and reach for it, then hesitate. How do you give water to an unconscious person? Too much and he could choke. Too little and it won’t help.
Small sips, I decide, carefully lifting his head with one hand. I press the bottle to his lips, tilting it just enough to wet them.
“Cillian,” I say softly. “I need you to drink. Just a little.”
To my surprise, his lips part slightly, accepting the water. I tilt the bottle a bit more, letting a small amount trickle into his mouth. He swallows reflexively, and relief washes through me. He’s responsive, at least on some level.
I continue this way, offering tiny sips until he turns his head away slightly, refusing more. It’s not much, but it’s something. A start.
Setting the water aside, I pull the blanket higher over his chest, tucking it around his shoulders. He needs warmth, needs to build back his strength. Needs someone to watch over him.
I glance at the chair beside the bed, then at the door. I should return to my room before Ares wakes and finds me gone. Should retreat back to my self-imposed isolation where things are simpler, safer.
But I can’t leave Cillian like this. Can’t walk away knowing he’s vulnerable, alone, possibly still in danger from blood loss and shock. What if the stitches tear again? What if he develops a fever? What if he needs help and there’s no one here to provide it?
Decision made, I settle into the bed beside him, maintaining enough distance that I can still feel his body heat without touching. I’ll stay until morning, I tell myself. Just until I’m sure he’s stable. Just until someone else can take over.
Just until I know he’ll be okay.
The room is quiet save for the sound of Cillian’s breathing—shallow but steady, a rhythm I find myself matching unconsciously. The adrenaline that carried me through the crisis begins to ebb, leaving exhaustion in its wake. I rest my head against the back of the chair, eyes heavy but determined to stay open.
I need to stay awake. Need to watch over him. Need to be ready if something goes wrong.
But the events of the past few days—the mini-heat, the isolation, the emotional turmoil—have taken their toll. Despite my best efforts, my eyelids droop, consciousness slipping away in increments.
The last thing I see before sleep claims me is Cillian’s face, peaceful in unconsciousness, the worry lines that usually mark his brow temporarily smoothed away. In this moment, he looks younger, vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen him before.
I’ll protect you, I think hazily as darkness closes in. Just this once, let me be the one who protects you.
The thought follows me into dreams, a promise I’m not sure I can keep but desperately want to try.
