Page 31 of Donovan
Donovan’s blood. The only blood I wanted to taste was his, but not like this. Not when he was hurt, weak, so helpless in my arms.
I laid him down gently on the couch, panic gnawing at me as I brushed his hair away from his forehead. His color was off, his lips pale.
I’d been in enough situations to know how bad it looked, but I couldn’t bring myself to think that this was the end for him. I couldn’t.
I rushed around the cabin, searching for any kind of first-aid supplies.
I didn’t have much experience with treating injuries, but I knew enough to keep him alive until I could figure out the rest.
My hands shook as I dug through cabinets, pulling out bandages, gauze, and antiseptic.
The sound of Donovan’s ragged breathing was the only thing that anchored me to the reality of the moment.
It reminded me that he was still here. He wasn’t gone yet.
I turned back to Donovan, swallowing the fear that clogged my throat. His injuries were bad, but not impossible to fix.
At least not most of them. His body was covered in bruises and scratches, the kind you’d expect from a fight with a pack of rabid monsters.
But it was his arm that worried me the most. It looked real bad. The bone was surely fractured. Not broken at least, I thought with some relief.
Still, the blood that oozed from the wound was thick and dark, a stark contrast to the paleness of his skin.
I knelt beside him, my fingers trembling as I gently lifted his arm to examine it more closely.
His face twisted in pain, and I winced, hating myself for causing him even more discomfort.
I needed to stabilize it, to make sure it didn’t get worse. I found some makeshift splints in the cabin, cutting strips of cloth and wood to secure his arm as best I could.
I worked quickly but carefully, trying to keep the pressure off the wound while still making sure the bone was immobilized.
His body shuddered with each movement, but he didn’t say anything. Not a word. When I was finished, I sat beside him, my hand hovering over his, unsure of what to do.
My undead heart was a mess, torn between the fear of losing him and the deep, unrelenting desire to take care of him.
"Donovan," I whispered, my voice rough, as if the very sound of his name could bring him back to me. "Donovan, stay with me."
It felt like hours had passed before Donovan finally stirred, his eyes fluttering open. Seeing the faintest glimmer of recognition in his eyes, I relaxed. He was still alive.
CHAPTER EIGHT
DONOVAN
The world driftedin and out, a hazy blur of light and shadow. I floated somewhere between wakefulness and unconsciousness, caught in a restless, feverish limbo.
My body felt heavy, my limbs weighed down as if I had been sinking into the earth for days.
The pain came in dull waves, sometimes a sharp, pulsing throb in my arm, sometimes a deep ache that settled in my bones.
Through the fog, I caught flashes of reality. Moments of clarity that were gone as quickly as they came. And in those moments, I saw Declan. He was always there.
I would wake just enough to register his presence.
The restless pacing of his long strides, the growl he made when he ran a hand through his dark hair, the tension that clung to his frame like a storm about to break.
Other times, he was still, sitting stiffly in the chair across from the bed, watching me with an unreadable expression.
His eyes, so familiar yet different now, never strayed far from me.
