Inana
I lie still, crushed by his weight and shocked by the warmth of his body. And just…shocked. It’s been years since I’ve had a man on top of me, and while this isn’t exactlythatkind of situation, it still makes my mind go blank for an embarrassingly long time.
“I’m enjoying it too, don’t worry.”
I look to the side to find Lust sprawled casually beside us, facing me, cheek propped on his fist. He’s only semi-visible, because of the lantern light, but his imitation of Dominic’s visage is disturbingly accurate. Even that seductive grin, which I’m starting to glimpse more and more on the real thing. Sloth stands on our other side, whining softly as he sniffs his master’s hair.
“Pathetic,” Pride says, staring down his nose at us with a pompous smirk.
My shock at being crushed by Dominic abates, especially when I remember how badly injured he is. I push off my mask, careful I don’t stab Dominic with its sunbeam spikes. To think I fantasized about doing exactly that when we first met. Now I’m not even remotely tempted, even with him in such a vulnerable state. I still hate what he is and what he so desperately wants to become, and I’ll be glad when we part ways in six months, but…I don’t hatehim.Not completely.I don’t fully trust him either. But there is more to him than I know, and I want to discover what that is.
As gently as I can, I edge out from beneath him, leaving him prone. The blood smeared on the front of my dress suggests he’s still bleeding profusely, and when I assess his back, I see that the wound goes all the way through his shoulder.
Shit.
As I stand there staring at his unconscious form, I realize I’m at a loss for what to do next.
Harlow climbs beneath the canopy from the front of the wagon. “Calvin sent me to check on—What the fuck? Is he dead?”
“No, but…” I rush toward her, then part the canopy’s opening.
Calvin’s eyes fly to mine at once, lashes fluttering. He covers his mouth and passes the reins to Bard. “Ooooh, gods, that smell.” His voice is almost euphoric.
I frown, then realize he’s reacting to the scent of Dominic’s blood. He’s addicted to it, after all. And it’s all over the front of me. I pull back slightly so only my head emerges from the opening. “Dominic is injured and unconscious, and I don’t know what the hell to do. What do you normally do in these situations?”
Calvin slumps low in his seat but runs a hand over his face, as if fighting the lure of Dominic’s blood. “Mm. Where was he injured? And with what?”
“Below his collarbone. And it was…the Incarnate. It sent some…shadow spear through him, I don’t know. He’ll heal though, right? Isn’t he sort of immortal?”
Calvin scrubs his face again. “Damn. He normally heals quickly, but not from Shade wounds. If it punctured vital organs, his healing will focus on that first, but if he loses too much blood, his thirst will grow faster than he can heal, and…let’s just say none of us want that.”
My heart slams against my ribs. Just when I thought the threat was over for the night.
“The best thing we can do is clean his wound and stitch his flesh. His healing will do the rest. But it can’t be me. I’ll…hump his fucking leg or something if I go back there. It has to be someone else.”
Harlow’s voice is muffled beneath the canopy. “Sounds like a job for you, Seamstress.”
I clench my teeth, but I suppose she’s right.
“Strong spirits, thread, and needles are in the crate beside you,” Calvin says.
I pull myself back beneath the canopy and riffle through the crate Calvin mentioned. I find a suture kit and the alcohol. Harlow ignites two more lanterns, knowing I’ll need as much light as possible. She hangs them from the arched canopy, then helps me remove Dominic’s scabbard. I stare at his jerkin, debating whether to cut it off him or try to remove it without destroying it completely. Reaching for one of his daggers, I choose destruction. I’m too worried that shifting him around will only make his wound worse. Besides, there’s already a godsdamned hole in his clothing.
Carefully, I slice through the dark leather, then through his shirt. I gag at the sight of the wound, the ragged flesh, the blood that seeps freely from it. I’m not a fucking surgeon, so I haven’t a clue what may have been punctured, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s his lungs. My hands tremble as I uncap the spirits and pour them over the gash. Dominic doesn’t utter a sound, nor do his Shades, who’ve disappeared into the Shadowbane. Harlow hands me a curved needle, then catgut. I thread the gut through the eye of the needle and get to work.
At first, I flinch each time the needle pierces his flesh, but after a few stitches, I settle into the familiar routine. The materials may be different, but stitching wounds is so similar to sewing it makes me feel like I’ve done this before. Or perhaps it’s because of my story, the one I used to tell at the Wretched Lair. I’ve imagined it so many times, stitching flesh. I can almost convince myself I really did stitch my chest wound back together myself. In truth, it healed on its own, for it wasn’t deep enough to puncture vital organs. I’ve wondered time and again how Henry had planned to slice out my heart with such a shallow cut. I like to think my words unnerved him too much to truly give it his best effort. In my most generous imaginings, I consider whether there was a part of him that fought against what he was doing. I got away, after all. Did he let me go? Or did he flee after I cut him with my needle?
I complete the final stitch to seal Dominic’s wound, but my mind is elsewhere as I try to remember what happened next. Like always, my memories are hazy. The blood loss was too great for me to have been lucid, and the trauma I endured lasted months. To be honest, I didn’t start to feel like myself again until I got to Nalheim.
“Inana,” Harlow whispers, pulling me from my thoughts. I realize my hands stopped moving. “Tie it off so you can stitch the front too. I don’t want him waking up with raging thirst anytime soon.”
She’s right. This is no time to let my guard down. Work carefully, yes, but not slowly.
I tie off the row of stitches, then together we roll him onto his back. We tug off the severed halves of his jerkin and pull his shirt down to bare the wound. The rest of his shirt is trapped behind him, so I don’t remove it all the way. I repeat the routine, cleaning the wound, then stitching it shut.
“Will you see if there are bandages in the crate?”
Harlow obeys and returns with several strips of cloth. I’ll have to trust they’re clean, for there’s no way to boil and dry them now. She aids my efforts in wrapping the bandage around his shoulder, ensuring it’s fully covered on both sides. Once finished, we release heavy exhales and sit back, saying nothing for a time. In the wake of our activity, it’s painfully quiet, my blood no longer rushing in my ears. There’s only Dominic’s labored breathing and the rhythmic melody of the wagon’s wheels.
