Page 33 of Bryce

“Yes.” He grimaced, a bit rueful. “I’ve been trying to ignore it, telling myself it would go away, but…”

“Very wise course of action,” I groaned. “Should I help you or slap you? I’m uncertain.”

“You’ve already slapped me. Remember?”

Wasn’t it just like him to remind me? “Do you want my help or no?”

“What’s the trouble, then?” he sighed.

“I wish I knew.” I picked up one of the flashlights and trained the beam on the wound, and a sparkle caught my eye almost instantly. “I see it now.”

“See what?”

“You managed to get a piece of metal stuck in you. Somehow.”

“I landed on my back. Perhaps it was already on the ground, and I merely landed on it.”

“Perhaps,” I murmured, my mind reeling. What if he bled heavily when I pulled it out? What if the metal was all that kept him from bleeding out? What if, what if…

“You’ll take it out, won’t you?”

I almost dropped the flashlight. “You trust me to do this?”

“I trust no one more than I trust you.”

I didn’t want this to send a shiver of appreciation through me. I certainly didn’t want my heart to leap to the challenge once I knew I had his trust. Yet there I was, my heart leaping away.

But he settled the trembling in my hands, too, which was just what we both needed. “All right, then. I’ll pour alcohol over the wound and my hands.”

“Will you sew?”

“It’s an inch long. Do you think I need to?”

“We… shall see. Depending on the amount of blood involved.”

My stomach clenched when I heard what he made a point not to say. He was as aware as I what might come of this once I pulled the metal free.

There was no getting around it. I picked up the flashlight and held it between my teeth, then cleansed my hands. He winced when the alcohol ran down his back but gritted his teeth rather than crying out. I asked myself how many times he’d suffered an injury such as this, there were enough small scars along his back, his chest, his legs to speak of many such incidents.

This was hardly the time to be thinking about his body, however.

“You all right?” he asked when I hesitated. He had no way of knowing it wasn’t fear which held my hand still, but the memory of him.

I couldn’t speak with a flashlight between my teeth, so I settled on touching his back to warn him I was about to start. The metal was close enough to the surface that I need only grasp it between two fingers and ease it free.

I reminded myself he was a shifter, like me, and we were not as susceptible to the consequence of injury as humans.

I reminded myself how strong he was. How many missions he’d been on, how many times he had risked his life. He could stand this.

And if he could, so could I.

He braced himself, the muscles bunching and tensing beneath his skin when my thumb and forefinger closed over the metal shard. I placed my free hand on his shoulder, hoping to ease him. He covered it with one of his.

Carefully, so carefully, I began to work it free. One millimeter at a time, or so it seemed. His hand tightened over mine, but he did not flinch. Nor did he make a sound.

He was so brave. And I loved him so much. Why had I pushed him away? Why hadn’t I told him instead of starting a fight? We may have lost our chance on St. Lucia, but here we were with another chance before us.

And what had I done? Everything in my power to be certain of losing him again.

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