Page 22 of Beneath My Skin

“You’re going to have to sew me up,” Dax said.

“What?”

“Sew me up. You know, needle and thread. Otherwise, I’m not going to heal properly. If I’m doing this the old-fashioned way, I’d rather not have a huge round scar.”

“Don’t want to mar your perfect skin, eh?” I joked to cover my nerves. My fingers trembled. Hot tea could wait. I’d need the water for other purposes.

“Something like that. Come on, Mariella. Don’t go all wimpy on me.”

“I’m not going wimpy on you. I’m steeling myself.” I hunted through the drawers and cabinets until I located the first aid kit.

“Thank you,” he said after a long pause. “For what you did. I know she took you by surprise. That was her intention.”

“What did I do?” I asked, fetching a mixing bowl to use as a basin.

“You got me out of there even though you were terrified. It takes a lot of guts to face your fears.”

The remnants of nerves had my hands shaking. “Don’t thank me. You should apologize to me. You’re the one who made it snow in the first place.”

At last the water came to a boil and I brought the steaming kettle over to the table, resting it on a trivet. I reached for the first aid kit, then realized it wasn’t the kind of kit I’d need for this particular job. The sewing kit was in the other room, kept there for emergencies and rarely used unless I ripped a hole in my clothes or needed to sew on a button. I brought it into the kitchen and stared from it to Dax then back. Wondering if this was something I could do.

Focus, I mentally chided.

“I had no choice but to obey her, and I am sorry.” Naked concern filled his eyes, quickly absorbed by his machismo a second later. “Maybe it was just a way for me to get you alone.”

“You had me alone in your claustrophobia-inducing bottle. I know what you’re trying to do.”

“What?”

“Distract yourself so this hurts less,” I said.

He shook his head, then winced. “I know it’s not going to hurt less. It doesn’t help to try. It’s going to be agonizing for the both of us.”

I paused in my attempt to lace the thread through the eye of a needle. “Oh, great. You’re going to make me panic.”

“Just get this over with. And hand me something to bite down on.”

“This isn’t the old-time West. I don’t have a spare strap of leather lying around,” I said, hands frantically flying around my head. “I guess you’re going to have to take this like a man.”

I set about the odious task of sewing Dax together. Gritting my teeth and hating the way the needle, newly sterilized in boiling water, slid through his skin like a hot knife through butter.

“I swirled together some instant coffee. Have some. It will distract you.”

Dax used his free hand to grab the steaming cup I had set down beside the basin. I watched him take a sip, his eyes crossing. “What the hell did you do to this?” he asked with a cough.

“I put some whiskey in it. To help with the pain.”

“It’s disgusting!”

“Well, sorry! I was trying to help. If you’re not going to drink it, then tell me about yourself,” I said to distract him. Or distract myself. Maybe this time it would work.

“What do you want to know?” he asked after a moment’s hesitation.

“How old are you?”

Through gritted teeth, with his eyes trained on the ceiling, Dax said, “I’m four hundred and fifty-two years old.”

“That’s a long time to be alive.”

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