“You're doing grand,” he says through gritted teeth. “Grand, lass.”
The fact that he's trying to reassure me right now while I'm literally sewing his head shut?—
“You're delirious,” I say to him, but I can feel myself smile in the midst of it all. My voice wobbles. “Hush, love, and hold still.”
I lean down and kiss his sweaty cheek, brushing my free hand to wipe away tears, and go back to sewing. “I love you,” I whisper.
My hands steady. Another stitch. And another.
I tie it off and cut the thread. Blood is still oozing around the stitches, seeping through. “Ciarán, hand me that gauze. All of it.”
Another stitch. The needle punches through skin, and I feel it in my teeth. Nausea rumbles. The wound closes slowly, the work rough but functional. It just needs to hold.
Everything just needs to hold.
My hands are shaking so badly that the next stitch goes crooked. I need to move, need to dosomethingwith this energy crawling under my skin, but I can't because my hands are covered in his blood, and… and… if I stop stitching… what if he dies?
I try to bounce my knee, but it makes my hands shake worse.Fuck.
The next stitch goes in, and my vision blurs again. Tears or shock or both, I don't know, don't care. I'm humming without meaning to, some tuneless anxious sound, trying to self-soothe while my brain screams at me that this isn't working, nothing's working, I need to move?—
“Erin,” Cavin says, his voice soft and slurred. “Look at me, love.”
“I'm busy saving your life, will youpleaseshut the fuck up.” My voice cracks. I can taste bile in the back of my throat. I'm rocking now without meaning to, tiny movements while I work. “Jesus Christ, there's so much blood?—”
“Erin.”
“I can't—if I don't get this closed—” Another stitch. My fingers are slick and red, and I can't tap them, can't flutter them, can't release any of this pressure building in my chest because I have to hold the needle steady, have to keep going.
“Look. At. Me.”
I meet his eyes, and the intensity there nearly breaks me. He's the one bleeding, the one with his head split open, and he's looking at me like I'm the one who needs saving.
But I do.
“You're doing perfect, love. Just keep going, my brave lass.” His hand finds mine and gives it a weak squeeze. “I love you. I'll never forget this.”
The words hit me hard. I choke on a sob, still rocking slightly, and force myself to keep stitching. I can fall apart after. After he's safe. After he's breathing steady and his eyes stay open.
Just hold on. Both of us just need to hold on.
I realize I've been holding my breath. My lungs burn as I take in air.
“Relax,” I tell him. “Just relax now, okay?”
But Cavin tries to sit up and immediately goes white. He's trembling.Fuck. Shock is setting in properly now. His skin is gray and clammy, and his lips are starting to lose color.
His left arm hangs at an odd angle. The goddamn shoulder.
“Shoulder’s dislocated,” Ciarán says. “Help hold him steady. Grab his hand, Erin.”
“Christ.” I exhale. “What are you?—”
“I need to put his arm back in the socket. We’ve done this before. On three,” he says. “One… two… three.”
He pulls, twists, and pushes with his whole body weight.
The pop is audible and horrible, loud enough that even Ciarán flinches. The joint slots back into place with a wet grinding sound that makes my stomach heave.
