Page 63 of Wolf's Bane
She dabbed the injury, wincing at the contact. Her fingers came away bloody. “Head wounds bleed. They look worse than they are.”
“How?”
“I think I hit my head. I tripped on a rock. Twisted my ankle.”
He needed…
He needed to take inventory of every scrap and bruise. He needed to get her clean, warm, and safe, but first he needed to stop the bleeding.
Claws still out, he sliced off the tunic. Solenne protested, throwing an arm over her chest. “Stay still. Be quiet,” he ordered, tearing the garment in half. One half mopped at the drying blood.
“Hold this,” he said, pressing the fabric to her head. The other half he tore into strips. The fabric was soiled, but it would do for a bandage. He wished he had water, a clean shirt to offer, but all of that he abandoned with the horse when he heard her scream.
Carefully, he brushed his fingers over her exposed skin, searching for injuries. His touch remained clinical, and the beating of her heart kept him focused.Thump. A scuff on her chin.Thump. A split lip.Thump. An angry red burn on her abdomen. Her skin flinched at his touch, and she sucked in a breath.
“Hurt?”
“Tickles,” she confessed.
He ignored his desire to touch her again and resumed his inspection, but her trousers got in the way. She wore too many garments. Grumbling, he undid the ties and tugged the fabric down.
A bruise had already bloomed on her lower abdomen.
Unacceptable.
She shifted. Sticky blood from an unseen wound smeared on his bare leg. Needing to know, he yanked on the trousers. Her hands knocked him away. “My boots,” she said.
He tugged on the laces, growling in frustration as she kicked her feet. “I twisted my ankle. It will swell if you take off my boots, and I won’t be able to get them back on.”
“I’ll carry you.”
“No. Keep it in my boots until we can get ice on it.”
Frustrated, his claw sliced down the trouser leg, exposing the scraped knees and puncture wounds on her calves. The wounds bled freely. As careful as he could with his disfigured hands, he tied the fabric strips around her calves.
“Is it bad?”
He grunted. She laughed, high-pitched and a touch frantic.
He gathered her back into his arms.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Still alive. Still with him.
His thumb brushed her bruised lip. Leaning down, he gave into instinct and licked the edges clean. He had tasted hot, fresh blood from the hunt many times in his beast form. This was sweeter. Better than anything imaginable. He continued to clean her face, not understanding this need, until she batted her hands at him.
“Gross. Stop licking me. Do I look like a lady who enjoys being licked?”
Amusement rumbled through him. “You’ll enjoy it when I lick you.”
Her breath hitched. “Yes. All right,” she said.
“Yes?”
