Outstanding life choices, Clare. Really racking up the wins tonight.
The apartment was barely warmer than outside. My breath fogged in sharp bursts as I hauled him toward the bed, his tactical boots scraping across the concrete floor. Dead weight. Almost literal.
Halfway across the room, his legs buckled completely. I went down with him, knees cracking against the floor, his body sprawled half across mine.
Heat radiated from him despite the hypothermia, fever climbing, his body fighting too many battles at once. How the hell was he still alive?
I became aware of his size then, the solid weight of him, lean muscle and controlled power even unconscious. His head rested against my shoulder, blood matting his hair, his breath shallow against my throat.
My pulse kicked up for reasons that had nothing to do with exertion.
Stop it. Move.
I shoved upright, grabbed him under the arms, and dragged. His head lolled back. More blood dripped onto my floor, joining the trail we’d left. Five feet. Three. The bed frame hit the backs of my knees, and I dropped him onto the mattress less than gently.
He didn’t react.
That scared me more than the blood.
The radiator clanked in the corner, mocking. I crossed the room in three strides and kicked it. Hard. The metal rattled, coughed, and went silent. No heat. Never any goddamn heat.
“Fantastic.” I grabbed the kettle, slammed it under the faucet. Water pressure was shit tonight. I shoved it onto the stove, cranked the burner to maximum. Blue flame erupted. Not enough. Nowhere near enough heat to warm this frozen tomb of an apartment.
He was shivering so hard the bed frame creaked. Violent, uncontrolled tremors. Advanced hypothermia. His core temperature was dropping into the ‘you’re-dying’ range. Technical medical term, that.
I yanked open the bathroom cabinet, already knowing what I’d find. Bandages. Antiseptic. Ibuprofen. Precisely nothing adequate for the trauma disaster bleeding out on my bed.
Back to the bedroom. Xavier hadn’t moved, sprawled where I’d dropped him, tactical gear soaked and frozen. The gear had to come off. All of it. Now.
I grabbed the scissors from the kitchen drawer — the good ones I’d stolen from the clinic — and returned to the bed. Knelt beside him. Hesitated.
His chest rose and fell in a labored rhythm. Wet sound underneath, like something rattling loose. Possible pneumonia from the river water. Add it to the list.
Stop stalling. Cut.
I straddled his hips, grabbed the tactical vest, found the seam, and started cutting. Kevlar parted under sharp blades, falling away in sections. Then the shirt underneath, blood-soaked and frozen to his skin. I peeled it back, fabric sticking, and…
My hands stilled.
His torso came into view. Lean muscle, the kind that came from necessity, not vanity. Pale skin marred with scars, surgical precision at the base of his neck, jagged violence across his ribs. The map of a life I couldn’t begin to read. Combat body. Weapon body.
Warmth flooded my face.
I became aware of my position, kneeling over him, one hand braced on his bare chest, the other holding scissors against skin. Too close. Too aware.
His breathing caught. Rattled. Wet.
Shame flooded me like ice water.
What are you doing? He’s dying, and you’re what? Checking him out? Jesus Christ, Clare.
I moved again, faster, shoving the awareness down hard. Professional. Clinical. Just a patient. Another body, another set of injuries, nothing more.
I cut away the last of his shirt, tossed fabric onto the floor. Forced myself to catalogue the damage systematically.
Three lacerations across his ribs, edges clean. Recent. None deep enough for immediate concern but all still seeping. I grabbed gauze and pressed it to the worst one. His skin was too cold under my palm, his breathing too shallow.
The head wound came next. I brushed blood-matted hair aside, found the laceration running from temple to crown. Deep. Bone visible underneath. It needed stitches. Proper stitches, by someone who’d actually been to medical school and had the license to prove it.
