Page 75 of When the Sky Breaks

“Let me,” Neal said, taking my hand between both of his and easing off the handkerchief.

“Does it need stitches?” I asked. It was a stupid thing to worry about, I knew that. Here I was, having traveled all this way in awful conditions, fought off would-be kidnappers and inter-dimensional demons, scared of stitches. But that didn’t make the dread coiling in my stomach any less real.

“It’s still bleeding, and it’s been more than eight hours,” Neal said. “And it’s gaping a bit. So probably.”

“Can you do it before Ansel gets back and tries to help?” I asked.

“Of course,” Neal assured me. “Come here. Let’s get dry and I’ll grab my kit.”

Neal sat opposite me on the bed, needle and thread in hand. He’d sanitized everything. He doused his hands in whiskey. He ran the needle through a candle flame. But I—in spite of myself—outright refused to let him see my injured hand. So much for regal maturity. Then again—this was Neal. I’d thrown up on his boots and cried in his arms. He’d bathed me while I was unconscious. Regal maturity was never returning to this particular relationship.

“I promise it will be fine,” Neal assured me.

“What if I pass out?” I asked.

“I’ll wake you up,” Neal replied. “We’ve been over this.”

“How much will it hurt?” I asked.

“Probably less than punching him did,” Neal said.

“And you’re positive you know how to do this?” I pressed.

“You’ve really never had stitches before?” Neal countered.

I shook my head.

“And after, I don’t know, everything that’s happened in the last six months, this is what scares you?” Neal asked.

“Yep,” I said with a shrug. “I didn’t have to say yes and sit still for any of the other bits.”

He took the shrug as an opening, seizing a sudden but firm grip on my bicep and pulling my injured hand into his lap.

“That’s not playing fair,” I snapped.

“Hold still,” Neal instructed. I was fidgety, all nervous energy and a desire to be out, done, not about to be stabbed repeatedly with a needle in this awful hotel room in this godforsaken city.

“Sorcha, breathe,” Neal said. “And hold still.”

“Okay.” I took a deep breath—in through my nose and out through my mouth. “Okay, I’m ready.”

Then the needle pricked my skin and instantly I was trying to pull away again.

“I changed my mind,” I yelped.

“Not an option,” Neal said, voice even, not letting me move an inch. He kept working.

“I hate this stupid city,” I muttered through gritted teeth.

“Lucky for you we’re leaving tomorrow,” Neal said. “And since you finally relented and let me stitch this up you’ll barely even have a scar to remember it by.”

And that was when Ansel burst into the room—still without knocking.

“I found food! And I’m almost positive you won’t throw this up . . .” he trailed off. “What are you doing?”

“She cut up her hand when she punched that cultist earlier,” Neal said, still not looking up from his work.

“And what?” Ansel asked. “After eldritch portals, almost dying of fever half a dozen times, puking your guts out for months, stitches are the thing that scares you?”