Out of the rain, Erin watched with dread and dismay as the blood began to pool.
Chapter Twelve
Okay, that’s a lot of blood, Erin thought, pushing back the tangle of wet hair that hung in front of her eyes. But she didn’t hesitate to kneel before the chest, grabbing everything that looked useful. A silvery, metallic thread. A hefty-looking needle. There were no more clean cloths, though—she remembered that Jaxor had used the rest of it bandaging her foot yesterday.
Quite the pair we are, she thought shakily, bringing her haul over to where Jaxor was sitting. He looked relaxed. His limbs were loose, his eyes were studying hers. Though he had to be in pain, he didn’t show it.
“You’ll be okay,” she said softly. She had to believe that.
Oh God, she thought, her eyes flickering down to the wound. Erin had never considered herself squeamish. Jake, when he was five, had cut open the palm of his hand on a sharp can lid. She’d stitched a cut on her mother’s forehead after John had thrown a bottle at her, after her mother had begged her not to take her to the hospital. One of the children in her class a couple years back had broken his arm on the playground, falling off the monkey bars, and though it had hung at a grotesque angle, Erin hadn’t even blinked as she’d rushed towards him.
But nothing had truly prepared her for all the blood.
She inhaled a long, even breath, kept her voice steady, as she asked Jaxor, “What should I do?”
The end of the silver thread was pinched between her thumb and her index finger. The needle was in her other hand.
“I will do it,” was what he said.
Erin gaped at him and held the needle away from him when he reached for it.
“Stop,” she said, pushing him gently back. He inhaled a sharp breath when his torso twisted slightly, the only sign that he was in a lot of pain. “Just…just sit still.”
There was so much blood, but it wouldn’t lessen until she stitched some of the wound closed. So Erin immediately set out to work.
The first stitch made her stomach churn. Jaxor’s skin was…thick. Much thicker than her own. Now she knew why the larger needle had been necessary.
Erin leaned over him, kneeling at his side. He lifted his left arm up so she could get better access and Erin refused to be distracted by the heady, delicious musk that floated off him. She’d almost forgotten his scent in the past couple days.
The second stitch was easier, and the one after that. Erin worked quickly and methodically, starting at the bottom of one of the gashes and stitching upwards until she ended near his nipple. At times, she lost her grip on the needle since her fingers were slippery with his dark blue blood, but soon enough, the first gash was closed and she hurriedly moved on to the next one.
Jaxor hadn’t said a word when Erin closed the first gash. When Erin finally caught her breath and managed a peek up at him soon after she began on the second, she saw, with relief, that he hadn’t passed out.
Those blue eyes glowed in the low light. The look he was giving her flustered her, which wasn’t ideal given the current situation. There was no malice in his gaze, only a gentle curiosity, a contented perusal.
“Doesn’t it hurt?” she whispered. She didn’t know why she bothered to whisper, but speaking seemed too…jarring.
In the distance, she heard anotherkekevir’s roaring hiss, but it was faint, mercifully far away. It was the first time that she realized if another one made it past the protection of the fire sconces, Jaxor was in no condition to fight it off. However, something told her that he still would.
“You wish that it hurts, do you not?” he replied.
Erin almost laughed. In the chaos of that morning, her hysteria had transformed into a frantic kind ofamusement. Maybe because she was so desperate for him to be okay. Maybe it was because of her concern for him that laughing would make everything seem…normal.
That thought made her pause. Nothing about this was normal. And why was she so concerned for her alien captor? The same male that had kidnapped her, that had dragged her all the way up here, that had been surly and cold at almost every turn, that picked a fight at every opportunity?
Including this one, she thought.
Erin wondered if it was because of the bond between them. The other women—the ones that had already gone through this whole fated mates business—had called it an ‘undeniable connection.’ Was she concerned for Jaxor’s well-being because of it? Because some primal, invisible part of herself recognized him for what he was and cared for him, regardless of their strange circumstance?
“You like fighting,” she pointed out, swallowing the thick lump in her throat, piercing his skin with the needle and pulling it through.
When a still-soaked tendril of her hair escaped from behind her ear, it was Jaxor who reached out and tucked it away, his clawed finger brushing the sensitive flesh. Erin was so surprised that she looked up at him, the needle frozen. Before thekekevirhad made it into the base, he’d reached out to touch her cheek, the movement gentle and…wonderful.
“Maybe you like fighting too,” he commented.
“I don’t,” she denied without missing a beat, her brow furrowed in concentration.
“Maybe you think you don’t.”
