Page 20 of Covert Desires

The piece must have gotten lodged in deeper as he moved about.

Fuck.

I lean down, removing his gag, "Nico, can you hear me?"

The restrained man offers only a low grunt, his eyes drifting, unable to focus.

“Nico?”

The heat radiating off his body is unmistakable.

Fever.

This is bad.

I should’ve known, should’ve taken that shard out immediately.

Damn-it.

I’ve dealt with so many messy wounds during my years in the Marines; I know this is not the kind of thing you leave in.

But, in my defense, last night (this morning) didn’t exactly go according to plan.

Nevertheless, this asshole is not dying in my inn. I don’t need that kind of heat. Not when I’m supposed to be dead. The police will definitely come looking if a body washes ashore, and I can’t risk blowing my cover. Just the thought of finding a new hideout is exhausting.

“Hang in there," I mutter, trying to reassure both of us as I use Nico’s knife to free his arms from the duct tape.

Gathering supplies, I grab a clean towel, a bottle of water, and some antiseptic from the bathroom cabinet.

What I'm about to do could either help him or make things worse, but I have to dosomething.

Gritting my teeth, I soak the towel with water and kneel beside the bed to get a closer look at the wound.

"This is going to hurt," I say more to myself than to Nico, who seems beyond hearing.

The towel turns pink with diluted blood as I gently press the wet towel around the shard, trying to clean the area as best as possible without disturbing it.

I swallow hard, focusing on the task as I pour some antiseptic onto a clean part of the towel and dab it around the wound, praying it will do something to stave off the infection.

“Here goes," I whisper, wiping my sweaty hands on my shorts before gripping the shard. Forcing my breath past my lips in a steady flow, I slowly, carefully, begin to pull out the foreign object.

Nico jerks slightly, a strangled cry escaping his throat as the shard finally lodges free, coated in blood and something thicker—pus.

The sight makes my hungover body gag, but I force the bile down back into my stomach; I can’t afford to lose it now.

With the shard out, I can get a clearer look at the wound.

It’s bad—deep, with ragged edges and signs of serious infection. The skin around it is an alarming shade of red, and there’s a thin coating of yellow I wish wasn’t there.

I press the towel against the wound, trying to stem the flow of fresh blood and clean it as best as I can. "Come on, come on," I mutter, feeling the tension claw at my chest.

Nico’s breathing is shallow and fast, and he’s starting to shiver uncontrollably.

This isn’t good.

I grab the antiseptic again and pour it directly into the wound, watching as it foams and bubbles.

Nico moans in pain, but I have to keep going.

---