I don’t like it.
There’s so much pain that I might have regretted my impulsive rescue maneuver if the alternative wasn’t Micah being dead right now.
I’d rather hurt than have that happen. As self-sufficient as I believe myself to be, that much is still true.
I ride the motorcycle behind a shirtless Micah, gripping tightly with my right arm since it’s my left that’s injured. He drives at a moderate pace, one Molly can maintain without overtaxing herself, and we’re back home a lot faster than I expect.
Molly hurries to her water dish and laps up water and then collapses on some soft moss, panting and visiblypleased with herself. Micah gently unwinds my arms and dismounts, helping me off after him.
I have to lean on him as he leads me over to the camper. It’s not that I’m incapable of walking. It’s that I feel unaccountably weak—either from the pain or the blood loss.
Soon I’m stretched out on the bed on the sheets that were already stained from Micah’s blood. Micah is gently removing my shoes and my belt. “I think I’m okay,” I tell him since his expression is tense. Dead sober.
“You better be,” he mutters, carefully lifting my shoulders so he can pull off my top. It’s ruined. Torn and soaked in blood. Even my bra has blood on it, and it’s the only one I have. “Don’t you dare dive in front of a bullet again.”
“I was saving you,” I explain. My mind is a little fuzzy, but it’s important to me that he knows I wasn’t just being stupid.
I’m never stupid.
“I know you were. Don’t do it again.” Before I can object, he adds low and thick, “I’m not worth it.”
“Wh—”
“Your life for my life is not an even trade. Not even close.” He holds my eyes, his eyes far darker than blue eyes should ever be. “Don’t do it again.”
The pain has intensified because Micah is unwinding his makeshift bandage. I’m hot and muddled and a little bit dizzy, and I hate feeling this way.
But it’s important for me to say one final thing. “I’ll do what I want.”
The restof the afternoon isn’t a good one. Micah makes me take a few precious scavenged ibuprofen pills, but the pain only lessens a little. More than the pain is a stretched, restless feeling all through my body—as if it knows that something inexcusable happened. A bullet tore through my flesh, ripping apart my physical integrity in a way that simply isn’t right.
I toss and turn most of the afternoon, all my efforts focused on not groaning or whimpering out loud.
It’s important for me not to.
I couldn’t explain exactly why.
It’s late in the day—I have no idea of the time—when Micah sits on the edge of the bed so he can check, clean, and re-dress the wound.
I suck in a sharp breath at the slice of pain.
“I already know you’re stronger and more stoic than me,” he says lightly, his face serious but his eyes glinting just slightly. “You don’t have to keep proving it to me.”
I can’t help but respond to that familiar Micah tone—the self-deprecating, dry cleverness that’s a core feature of his spirit. “I’m not going to be a crybaby like you were when you got shot.”
He chuckles and strokes my damp cheek very lightlywith his fingertips. “I’m glad to hear it. I wouldn’t know what to believe about the universe if my Kat lowered her defenses even for a minute.”
My Kat.
Something about the words makes my stomach twist. Like I love the words and hate them at the exact same time.
I gasp again as he cleans the wound with antiseptic wash. I try to think of something clever to say but come up with nothing.
When he’s wrapped my upper arm snugly, he pulls the covers up over me again. I’m wearing nothing but panties and my worse-for-wear bra, but I’m not cold at all. I bring my arms out from under the covers.
He chuckles. “I wasn’t trying to boss you by covering you up.”
“I know. But I’m feeling kind of hot.”
