Page 24

“Tell me. Are you squeamish?”

I turn back to the meticulously labeled locked drawers of medication. “No.”

“What about blood?”

“What about it?”

“What do you think of it?”

Before I came here, that might have been one of the strangest questions I’d ever been asked, but somehow, it feels normal. “It’s blood.”

He hums, and instead of asking another question, he picks up a scalpel and cuts a line right down the center of his palm. It’s deep, and the blood appears immediately, but Booker doesn’t stop until the cut is complete. “Oh no, it appears I’ve had an accident. Would you be a dear and sew me back up again?” Booker sends a serene smile my way as blood streams down his hand and over his fingers.

What the fuck?

My jaw is hanging open, and at first, I don’t react.

“Are you really just going to stand there and let me bleed out?”

“No,” I gasp, not sure if it’s anger or offense taking over. I tug open drawers at random. “Where are the things I need?”

“You’ll find disinfectant wipes in the top drawer. Needles and thread in the second.”

My hands are shaking as I tug open the right ones and retrieve the items. I have exactly zero idea what I’m doing, but apparently, I’m fucking doing it. I collect maybe too much of everything before dumping it on a small metal trolley next to him.

Damn Booker, and damn this weirdo little town.

The blood runs steadily down his fingers, dripping a pool of it onto the floor, and there’s so much I have no idea where the hell to start. Adrenaline has taken over at this point, and I’m barely conscious with how foggy my head has gone, but it’s not like I can walk away.

“What the hell do I do?”

Unfortunately, Booker has decided now is the perfect time to go mute. He’s smiling at me, hand held up between us, and the more I glance between his face and his hand, the more I panic.

Can he bleed out from a cut to his hand? I’m no doctor, but he’s losing a lot, so it’s not completely far-fetched. But if it was possible, why the hell did he cut himself?

“There is something very, very wrong with you,” I snap, pulling on some gloves before tearing open the wipes and doing everything I can to clean up the area. “What the hell did you cut yourself open for? Are you suicidal?”

“Not at all. If I was, there are far more effective means.”

I wrinkle my nose, morbidly curious about how deep the cut goes as the blood keeps pouring out. “I don’t understand you.”

“Not many do. Which is okay by me because I’ve spent my whole life trying to understand anyone. It’s been a failing endeavor.”

That tickles my curiosity. “Like … medically? Is that why you’re a doctor?”

“Lots of questions for a rabbit. I thought cats were the curious ones.”

“Considering I’m not an animal at all, I don’t think it matters.” I throw him a glare as I tear open the needle and get to work on the next part. “You’re going to have to tell me what to do.”

“I’m sure you can manage.”

“That’s a lot of faith to be putting into someone who’s never done this before.” Still, I’ve seen medical dramas. I’m sure those things are one hundred percent accurate. My hands are shaking wildly, which probably won’t help things, but I manage to get the thread into the curved needle before grabbing the little clamp-scissor things to pull it through his skin.

I can totally do this.

“I’m confident you could stitch yourself up,” I mutter, breaking the skin with the needle. He doesn’t jump with pain, so I assume I’m doing something right.

“Unfortunately, I’m right-handed. And oh no, the cut is on my right.”