Page 65 of The Vigilant

The doctor moved Tynan’s left arm over his chest and said, “I’m going to disinfect the wound.”

I knew the announcement was for me—so I would know what he was doing. So, I wouldn’t ask again.

“What else do you need, Rorik?”

I blinked and slowly registered the doctor’s name.

“Two packages of hemostatic dressing in that case there.” He nodded to the topmost trunk and then went to the kitchen sink to wash up, ordering over his shoulder, “And eight bags of O negative.”

I shifted my weight, the feeling of helplessness settling like a cage of barbed wire around me, making me uncomfortable and edgy with even the steadiest breath.

I swore I’d never be helpless.

To make my father proud. To never end up like my mother. To protect myself. And yet here I was, feeling helpless for someone other than myself.

Rorik slid on a pair of gloves and pulled a sponge from an individually wrapped package and pressed it to the wound.

“Hold him.”

“What—” I didn’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t for Tynan to get another jolt of adrenaline from the pain.

“Keep him steady,” the doctor ordered more clearly.

I flattened my palm to the far side of his chest, near where the doctor was working. His skin felt cold. Clammy.

The doctor grabbed another sponge package, and I braced my arm to hold him down.

“Sorry, brother,” the doctor muttered before he wiped the wound a second time.

For this round of pain, Tynan only had the strength to flinch and groan and try to turn toward me.

“You have to stay still,” I said low, my face closer to his now that he’d turned.

Tynan grimaced, and then his eyes worked their way open like a train over broken tracks.

“Sutton…”

The weakness in his voice gutted me.

“Stay still, you stupid man,” I muttered, feeling my free hand slide up and take his fingers in mine. “I’m right here.”

Only then did his eyes close once more, and I swore his hand gave mine an almost imperceptible squeeze.

“Gauze.”

I looked up, but the doctor was talking to Rob, who now stood next to him, gloved up and ready to help. Except she wasn’t looking for the gauze or at him or even at Tynan. She was staring at me—at the tattoo on my wrist.

“Robyn.”

Her attention jerked back to him, and she quickly peeled open the blue package of hemostatic gauze.

At first, I thought she was going to pretend like she hadn’t been caught staring, but then she remarked, “A wasp tattoo. Not a common choice.”

I turned my arm a little, staring at the familiar lines delicately stenciled on my wrist.

“Maybe it should be,” I said, keeping my eyes focused on the doctor, watching him carefully apply the gauze to the wound.

“Sutures,” he interjected.

---