I reach for her, and she flinches the moment my finger grazes her shirt, as though she’s prepping for attack mode almost immediately the second someone touches her, and I don’t understand. It’s as if the thought of exposing even an inch of her skin … of herself … makes her feel in danger. Like anything or anyone could be a threat to her.
But I will never,everhurt her.
“It’s okay. I’ll be gentle,” I say, trying to keep my gaze fixated on her eyes despite the fire roaring in them.
Biting my lip, I gently curl my fingers under her tank top and push up the fabric until her naked belly is exposed, along with the gnarly-looking wound on her side.
She hisses when I graze past it with my thumb.
I pause, hovering over her skin while searching for approval, but if I keep waiting until she’s less pissed off, nothing good will ever happen. I have to help her.
I get up to pull the first-aid kit off the shelf in the corner, open it, then take out the bottle of alcohol and some cotton. I sit back down again and set all the supplies beside her on the tub.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Your wound needs disinfecting,” I say.
I dip the cotton in the alcohol and bring it to her skin, glancing up just once to make sure she won’t try to stab me with the many weapons she carries everywhere she goes.
C’mon, Xavier. You can do this.
I dab the wound, and she hisses in pain, nails digging into her thighs. I clean out the gash as best as I can. It’s quite deep, and I’m pretty sure it’s from a knife of some sort.
I pull back the cotton and stare at her blood, while mine begins to thicken with a rage I’ve never felt before.
I leer up at her. “Who did this to you?”
She tilts her head, a lopsided smile briefly appearing on her face before it’s gone again like it never even existed.
“No one.”
My nostrils flare, and I grab the next piece of cotton. Every one of my touches elicits a reflex of jolts and twitches in her body, but the longer I continue, the less frequent they become. I chuck all the cotton in the bin beside me and stare at the bleeding wound for a second.
“It’s too deep. That’s going to need stitches.”
“I can’t go to the hospital. It’s not safe.”
“I know.” I grab a pair of gloves and put them on, then pick up a needle and a thread from the box. “It’s going to hurt.”
“I can handle it,” she says.
I swallow again before I bring the needle to her skin and pierce through, trying to go as slow as possible so I don’t anger her further. I know she’s on edge, and it probably has everything to do with her current condition.
Something’s gotten her spooked. A surprise attack by an enemy?
“Whoever you’re protecting doesn’t deserve it,” I say, slowly looping the thread through her skin.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” she replies.
I pause and look up. “They hurt you. I can’t let that slide. They need to be punished.”
Her brows furrow, and she seems genuinely surprised that I’d say that.
“I … It was a mistake. That’s all,” she says.
“Being stabbed is rarely a mistake,” I reply, finishing up the sutures.
She sucks in a breath. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
