That’s enough.
Her eyes drift closed again before I even reach for the shears.
I keep it clinical. Hands only where they need to be, nothing extra. Lift the blanket at the shoulder, cut the hoodie seam. Bruising. Scrapes. No open wounds. I clean what I can and cover her again.
Hands, scraped raw.
Wrists, bruised, deep and shaped by fingers.
I lift the blanket edge, cut the jeans at the seams, and slide them off. Patchy bruising up her legs from falls and hard ground.
My jaw locks. I keep moving.
I disinfect the worst of the scrapes. Wrap her wrists. Press gauze to the places where skin split and dried stiff. She doesn’t flinch.
The whole time, I’m more aware of her body than I want to be. Curves under fabric. The softness of her against the couch. The faint scent of her under cold and dirt.
And the whole time, I hate myself for noticing because she’s not here to be seen like that. She’s here to survive.
Still, the sight of her makes something in me go quiet and fierce.
She’s mine to protect.
I check her knees. They’re scraped. Feet wrecked, cracked and torn, blood dried in patches from however long she ran barefoot through hell.
I clean them carefully. Apply ointment. Wrap them tight enough to hold, loose enough not to hurt.
No bleeding now. No breaks. But the kind of pain that lingers.
I cover her again and tuck the blanket in around her.
She got here on will alone. No help. No backup. Just pure survival.
Whoever did this to her?
They won’t get a second chance.
Not while I’m breathing.
Her face is softer than it has any right to be after what she’s been through tonight. She looks like she belongs somewhere warm and safe, not on a stranger’s couch.
My gut tightens.
Protective is an easy word. It doesn’t cover it.
I grab my comms. “Ghost.”
His voice comes through, low and steady. “Doc.”
“I’ve got a woman at my cabin. Barefoot. Bruised. Cold as hell. Looks like she ran from something. I heard an engine close before she hit the porch.”
Short pause. Ghost thinking.
“You safe?”
“For now.”
“You want eyes?”
