“Ready?”
“Go.”
I shove the revulsion down and push the gauze deep into the wound.
He roars, a harsh, guttural sound torn straight from his chest.
I feel the heat of his flesh around my fingers. It’s the most intimate, horrifying thing I’ve ever felt. I’m inside him. I’m touching the warm, slick, wrong machinery of his body.
My hands are completely slick with blood. My tears fall onto his chest, mixing with the sweat on his skin.
“I’m sorry,” I gag. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t stop,” he gasps. “More.”
I pack more gauze. I press down, putting all my weight into his shoulder.
“Hold it,” he says. “Thirty seconds.”
I hold it.
His face is draining fast. Still, he nods. “You’re doing great.”
“I’m hurting you.”
“You’re saving me.”
We stay like that, frozen in blood and pain. My hands on his wound. His eyes on mine.
“Okay,” he says finally. “Wrap it. Tight.”
I grab the roll of bandages and start winding the fabric tightly over the wound, under his arm, and across his chest. I pull it taut, securing the pressure, and tie it off.
When it’s done, I step back.
My hands are covered in red up to the wrists. Cassian takes a deep breath and rolls his shoulder experimentally. He winces, but nods.
“It’ll hold.”
Reaching out with his good hand, he takes my bloody finger and pulls me back into him until I’m standing between his legs again.
“Go wash,” he says softly, rubbing the back of my stained knuckles. “There’s a sink in the back.”
“I can’t leave you.”
“I’m not going anywhere. Promise. Now, go.”
He’s too stubborn to fight, even like this. So, I walk to the small sink in the corner of the bunker and turn on the tap. The water runs cold and clear, and when I stick my hands under the stream, it turns pink, then a dark red as it circles the drain.
I scrub until my knuckles are raw and stinging. I dry them on a paper towel, forcing myself to take a deep, steadying breath.
When I turn back around, my attention drifts to the man behind me.
He’s sitting on the table, slumped with exhaustion, shirtless and heavily bandaged. His eyes are closed, his head dropping dangerously forward.
He isn’t moving.
My breath catches. I drop the paper towel and sprint back to the table, my boots skidding on the concrete.
