Page 52 of Incipient

Reaching behind me, he flicked on the light switch and I squinted as the blaring light assaulted my eyes.

“Sorry,” he mumbled as his gaze racked over my body to assess any damage before grimacing at my feet.

I followed the direction of his gaze and then winced as I took in the sharp triangular piece of glass sticking out of my ankle like a tortilla chip. I hadn’t even felt it go in but suddenly, looking at it, it hurt like a bitch! Yelping like a total wimp, I quickly bent over and tried to dislodge the piece of glass, but Trace caught my wrists and stopped me.

“You don’t want to do that,” he warned as I straightened and met his troubled eyes, my wrists singing from where his hands had closed around them.

“Oh, yes, I do,” I insisted.

“You can’t just yank it out. You might nick an artery.”

My eyes widened. I absolutely did not want to nick an artery, accidently or otherwise. “But it really hurts,” I whined.

“I’ll get it out, don’t worry,” he said and then scooped me into his arms. “Since when are you such a baby?”

“I’m not a baby. Ithurts, dammit!” I ignored the insult and then cringed at the thick coat of red blood oozing down my foot. Granted, this was hardly the worst wound I’d ever suffered—heck, it wasn’t even in my top ten—but I didn’t have the numbness of shock or the pain reliever of adrenaline or the rapture of a vampire bite to help get me through it.

“That’s a lot of blood,” I noted, still staring with my nose crinkled. “Does that look like a lot of blood to you?”

“It looks like a normal amount,” he said as he carried me through the corridor to the downstairs bathroom and then flicked on the light with his shoulder.

Setting me down on the countertop, he bent down and started rifling through the cabinets.

“What’s a normal amount?” I stared down at my wound as the dripping blood changed direction and then trickled off the edge of my foot, pooling in a small puddle on the floor beside Trace.

He paused to take in the blood on the floor and then looked at my ankle before returning his focus to the cabinet. “It’s a little deeper than I thought,” he said as he pulled out a first aid case and then straightened.

“You think?” I said tartly, though feeling slightly vindicated for all my bitching and moaning. “I told you it hurts.”

He cracked the case open and pulled out some antiseptic and what looked like a pair of tweezers before leaning down to get a better look at the wound.

“Are you going to pluck my eyebrows with those things?”

His eyes lifted to mine, the smallest hint of a smile on his lips. “One thing at a time.”

I snickered and then gazed at the wound again. “Do you think I’m going to need stitches?”

“I’m not sure…” With his brows pulled together in concentration, he picked up my leg and inspected the piece of glass again. “It’s going to sting,” he warned as he sterilized the tweezer and then poured some of the alcohol around my ankle.

“Mothershitter!”I yelped, significantly louder this time.

“Sorry,” mumbled Trace, his attention fixed on the glass as he probed it gently with the tweezers. His hand moved further up the back of my leg toward my calf.

I worked my lip between my teeth as I thought about how warm and distracting and nice his hand felt against my bare skin.And thank god I shaved my legs, I thought to myself and then blushed as I remembered Trace was touching me. My eyes scoured his face for any hint of reaction and when his expression remained unchanged, I breathed a sigh of relief.

Apparently, he was too busy with my wound to bother listening in on my mundane thoughts. Thank god.

“The glass is out,” he said and straightened, tossing the offending piece of glass into the garbage can while still holding the back of my leg with his other hand.

“What? Seriously?” I glanced down and examined his handy work. “I didn’t even feel it.”

“I don’t think you’re going to need stitches, but make sure you keep it nice and clean so it doesn’t get infected,” he said as he let go of my leg and moved to the first aid kit on the counter beside me. Pulling out a large bandage, he peeled the back off and then kneeled in front of me again to place the bandage over my cut.

When he was done, he ran his hand over the bandage, securing it in place while also brushing against the delicate skin around my ankle. I immediately tensed under his touch and his eyes flicked up to mine.

“Did that hurt?” he asked, his eyes swirling with confusion and worry. He must have felt my muscles strain.

I swallowed noisily. “No. Not at all.”

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