I have to dig into the wound with a pair of tweezers to find the bullet. Her weak cry upsets my best friend, but he does his job, nosing her neck until she calms. The hunk of metal falls into my palm. “Shit.” It must have hit her through the seat, because a fragment of leather comes with it. No wonder she’s burning up. The knife wound looks bad enough, the edges red and angry, and I need to get some antibiotics into her. Right fucking now. Or as soon as I sew her up.
“Just a couple of stitches, darlin’. Murph, stay put.” I get to my feet with a groan, my hip and knee screaming at me to rest. Or down half a bottle of Vicodin—which isn’t a path I’m willing to go down again. Been there, done that, ended up almost losing myself completely.
So I opt for a single shot of bourbon—all I ever allow myself—and sit back down to stitch her wounds. Either she’s so far under she can’t feel shit or Murphy’s doing a damn good job of comforting her, because she doesn’t stir.
Her thigh bears another knife wound, but this one doesn’t need stitches. Just a solid cleaning and a sturdy bandage.
“I wish I had something else to call you besides ‘darlin’. But it’s gonna have to do until you wake up. Now, I’m sorry for this next part. But your bra’s more blood than lace, and those panties didn’t fare much better.” I do my best not to look as I loosen the clasp, but maneuvering an unconscious woman into a t-shirt without seeing her breasts? Or…other parts? Almost impossible.
Laying her in my bed, I brush her dark brown hair away from her face. Her cheeks are bright red, and a cold compress isn’t gonna do shit against a fever of 103. The antibiotic shot I gave her will help with the infection—if I can get her temperature down. I’d open the window if the storm weren’t raging outside. Instead, all I can do is stick damp towels in the freezer and swap them out every fifteen minutes.
After an hour, she’s worse, not better. Murphy whines from the foot of the bed. He’s been restless ever since I brought her in here, and I think he’s as worried as I am. “I know, pal. I’m trying.”
“Darlin’?” I cup her cheek and pull back the blankets. “You’re still burning up. I need to get that fever to break, and I only know one way to do that. Don’t suppose you want to wake up for me, do you?”
No answer. I don’t have much of a choice. A cold bath is the only option.
Stripping down to my briefs feels wrong, but she’s barely stirred, and I don’t trust my ability to keep her head above water unless I’m holding her.
Despite living “off the grid” up in the mountains, the large clawfoot tub is custom—long and wide enough for my bulk—and between the solar panels on the roof and my backup generator, hot water is easy to come by.
Wish I needed more of it now.
As soon as I sink down with her—and hiss out a sharp breath when my nuts try to crawl back inside my body—she whimpers and pushes weakly against my hold.
“Stay still,” I snap. “You need this.”
“Hurts.” She collapses against my chest, her head lolling onto my shoulder. The single word is barely audible over the water pouring from the spout, but it’s the first coherent one she’s uttered since I got her out of the SUV.
“That’s because you’re burning up. Once that fever breaks, you’ll feel better.”
“Liar.”
The fight in her tone reassures me, and I settle back, easing her a little lower in the water. “I was a United States Navy SEAL, darlin’. We don’t lie.”
“Isn’t that what a liar would say?” she rasps.
“I suppose it is. But I’m not, and it’s the God’s honest truth. Don’t suppose you have a name?”
“H-Hope…”
“That it? Just Hope?”
Her eyelids flutter, and she moves restlessly, her legs making tiny ripples in the water. The wet t-shirt clings to her hard nipples, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
Fuck. Stop thinking with your dick, asshole. She’s barely conscious.
I might as well be talking to a wall for all the good it does me. Hope is gorgeous—even bruised, feverish, and bloodied—and there’s something about her that calls to me. To the scarred, damaged, and broken pieces of my soul.
You’re being ridiculous, Wyatt. She’s in trouble, and as soon as the storm passes, you’ll take her into town, call the sheriff, and never see her again.
Hope tries to turn towards me, but winces. A single tear rolls down her cheek.
“Easy now, darlin’. You’re pretty banged up.” With one arm tight around her waist, I use the other hand to check her forehead. “Your temp’s better.”
“Who…?”
“Wyatt. Wyatt Blake. I pulled you out of that SUV.”
