He sheathed the knife and dragged the blood-soaked shirt over his head. The movement pulled at the wound, and his breath hitched for a second.
Emma’s heart skipped a beat when she saw it. A clean slice, four inches long, across the top of his shoulder. Not deep enough for stitches, but deep enough to scar.
“This needs to be cleaned,” she pushed away her concern and reached for distance. “You don’t need stitches—a few butterfly bandages should do it.”
“It’s fine.” But he didn’t stop her when she opened the antiseptic.
She worked methodically, cleaning the blood away, checking the depth, applying antibiotic ointment.
“You saved my life.” Emma focused on the wound, not looking at his face. “That bolt would have hit me. Killed me.”
“Yes.”
“You fought him. To protect me.”
“Yes.”
Her hands paused. Then continued applying gauze, taping it down.
“Let me see your hand.”
He stilled for a moment, then held out his hand, palm up. A red welt creased his skin, raw and angry—like a rope burn.
Emma’s breath seized. The bolt hadn’t slowed. It had been flying straight at her.
Zach caught it with his bare hand.
She looked up at him. “How did you do that?” She shook her head. “Is that what you are? What you do? Catch crossbow bolts out of thin air?”
The words hung in the air.
Zach’s shoulders tensed, a tell she recognized as preceding deflection.
“Reflex.”
A pang of disappointment—of hurt—shot through her. She turned away and began repacking the first aid kit, ignoring Zach.
“Emma.” His voice was low, careful.
She kept her back to him, returning items to the kit with unnecessary precision. Alcohol wipes. Gauze pads. Tape. Each movement deliberate, composed.
“Emma, look at me.”
“You should call your brothers now.” She closed the lid with a quiet snap. “Tell them what happened.”
“In a minute.” A pause. “Look at me. Please.”
The word stopped her. Zach didn’t say please. Didn’t ask. He commanded, controlled.
She turned slowly, the first aid kit clutched against her chest like a shield. She met his eyes—those intense gray-blue eyes that were anything but cold.
“I’m something called a Guardian,” Zach’s words came out rough, like they cost him something.
Emma furrowed her brow. “What's that mean?”
“I have… unusual abilities. Faster reflexes. I heal quicker than most people.” He held up his hand. “This burn mark, the cut, both will be gone by morning.” He flexed his hand, staring at the red welt across his palm.
She gasped. “What? That burn should take weeks to heal!”
