Page 77 of Bound
Releasing me, he rubs a hand over his face. “If he comes to …”
I don’t need him to finish. “I’ll be waiting.”
He nods and I take off after the others.
The tunnel is dark and cool around me. Sometimes, if I wasn’t sure Raina or the others would kick my ass, I’d live in the dimness. It reminds me of the Sith.
After the colony house was broken into a few months ago and the manor was overhauled, the guards asked for one thing: an infirmary area for anyone that got wounded on a job.
Darting around the archway into the brightly lit room, it takes my eyes several moments to adjust.
The other guards have already lifted Jarrah onto a triage bed, and the Fae male looks even worse under the glow.
After washing up, I approach him, insides steady. Caine is already at the bed, a pair of thin neoprene gloves on his long hands as he takes the shears to the rest of Jarrah’s clothes. I sweep the Fae male’s pupils with my penlight. They respond sluggishly. But they respond.
His skin is cool and damp as I wrap the manual blood pressure cuff around his arm. I flip my stethoscope into my ears and pump the air bulb, straining my ears for every small thump.
And swear at the low numbers.
Pulling the stethoscope down and releasing the tension on his arm, we bare the Fae male’s body and my eyes don’t know where to go first. The weeping laceration running from one shoulder to the opposite hip. Or the bruises marring his ribs and stomach. His face is little better, so swollen and barely recognizable.
Hells, the man looks like the kidnappers used him for a punching bag.
“He’s lost a lot of blood,” I say, eyeing the massive laceration. “I want an IV stat. Normal saline. Start him low.”
Caine administers an IV into the bend of Jarrah’s elbow and damn near tapes the port and his whole arm in place. We don’t need Jarrah coming to and ripping it out, so I don’t remark.
I palpate his abdomen, the chest plate. Throat. Skull. Each arm and leg. A slight shift in his left arm will require an x-ray. I file it for later.
“Saline,” I say. Caine scours Jarrah’s torso with the solution, cleaning off the dirt and grime from wherever the Fae are being held. Jarrah never makes a sound.
I snare a set of already laid out sutures, the recurved needle glinting in the overheads. “Hook up the leads,” I bark at the demon. “I want anything on EKG you can give me.”
He nods and wheels the machine closer. Careful of my hands, he places the electrodes as I work to stitch Jarrah up.
I bend over the male, pinching the flayed flesh and working as fast as I can.
Jarrah jerks. My hands still and Caine stops moving. “Did he just—”
The Fae male bucks on the table, flailing wildly. “Shit. Guys!” I bellow and footsteps pound into the room. “Hold him.”
Horan and Tanner damn near lay across Jarrah, hands grasping his shoulders and legs. Caine grips his head between his hands, keeping him from snapping his own neck.
Jarrah’s eyes fly wide as he convulses, terror and stark clarity in his gaze. “Amoret.” The one word is barely a breath from his lips, and he bows upward before dropping back down, unmoving.
The guys pant, their breathing loud. I press two fingers to Jarrah’s throat. Nothing. Not even a faint thrum of life.
“No. No. Don’t do this shit.” I force Horan out of the way and press the heel of my already flexed hands to Jarrah’s chest plate. “Caine, you got to breathe for me, man,” I get out between compressions. I count fifteen, stop. Caine pinches Jarrah’s nose and tilts his chin, just like I taught him. Two breaths.
We continue.
I compress until sweat flows down my spine. Until there is only the rush of my blood in my ears. Until all I can see is Jarrah’s damaged skin. The marks. The man.
“Gage.” The voice is distant. “Gage. He’s gone.” Rough hands try to pull at my arms.
I wrench away.
“Gage.” Twin bands of muscle encircle me, clamping my arms tight to my sides and forcing me back. Away from the bed. “He’s gone, man. He’s gone.” Ruin’s voice is quiet in my ear. Harsh.
My eyes remain riveted on Jarrah’s too pale face.
Fuck.
