Page 50 of Sinful Promise
He’s not exhibiting a fever yet. But his body works hard to heal wounds so extensive, he shouldn’t have left his bed in New York for weeks. And he sure as hell shouldn’t have traveled across the country, like my couch would somehow be better than his own for rest and recuperation.
I study the stitches above his brow, and another set, just below his left eye. Then I lift his shirt to find the sutures on his ribs red but not infected. They’re angry and hurting, because he won’t stop screwing around with them. He won’t wrap them.
He simply won’t stay put.
“Stupid asshole,” I grumble.
It’s infuriating that I was forced to sew him up. To make him better. To tend to a frickin’ amputation, because themafia don’t go to the hospital. But after all my hard work, he messes it all up anyway, and crosses the country for a doctor who would rather work with the dead.
Shaking my head, I straighten his shirt, and lower to my knees. Carefully, I unravel the bandaging around his hand, one layer at a time, and hate how it weeps. The blood soaking through the stark white bandage. The way he refuses proper, actual medical care.
I don’t know how to treat an amputation!
I especially don’t know how to treat one that came about in a filthy warehouse using scissors… or pliers… or whatever disgusting tool everyone knows was never sterilized.
I unwrap in silence, while Chloe comes to a stop at the end of the couch and burns a hole in the side of my face with her glare. Arctic blue eyes, contrasting snowy white fur. She shouldn’t be here as I expose such a delicate wound.
“Go away.” I lean across and swat at the spiteful ball of fur. “Chloe! Piss off, you stupid pussy.”
Meow bitch, Archer loves me more than he loves you.
“Chloe!”
“Talking to the cat is weird,” Micah mumbles sleepily.
I jump and wrench my head around to stop on his open, fiery stare.
The bags around his eyes say he’s exhausted, but the sharpness of the green inside says he’s got enough strength to get up and do whatever the fuck needs to be done.
“Micah—”
“You lift men’s shirts often, Doc?” He remains lying down, half-asleep, and yawns so his entire body gets caught up in the movement. Then he smacks his lips and wriggles the remaining fingers on his half-wrapped hand. “What would Archer say?”
Rolling my eyes, I go back to unraveling the bandage. “Archer would know I was going above and beyond for my marriage, making sure a man I don’t even know doesn’t die, all in the name of love and loyalty. Besides,” I mumble, quieter now, “of the two of us, I’m the one who blows up and gets jealous.”
Micah is older than Arch. Slightly thinner, though that’s probably a result of a week inside Emilio Pastore’s home, getting the life tortured out of him. His hair is a similar shade to Archer’s, though shorter. And like every other Malone I’ve met, green eyes shine bright and make promises of love. Loyalty. Selflessness.
But then I think of Felix, the second oldest, and shake that thought away.
Selflessness is not universal among these men.
“How are you feeling?” I unravel the last of the bandage and reveal his weeping injury.
A missing digit. A horrible hack-job that would traumatize even in a clean, planned setting. But to be done against his will by the enemy? To be left in pain, bleeding, while held captive inside a rival’s home?
Possibly the worst of all ways to be hurt.
“Are you in pain?” I ask. “Unwell?”
“Could probably do with a little morphine,” he murmurs. “Hurts a bit.”
“Of course.”
I leave his hand resting on his stomach, uncovered and vulnerable to the world. Then pushing to my feet, I look at the cat and snarl, “Stay away, you bitch.” Finally, I move into the kitchen, not only to grab water and pain relief for Micah, but to wash my hands and prepare to tend to a man’s mortal wounds.
Honestly, with such severe injuries and zero time spent in the hospital, I’m surprised he hasn’t died already.
At least then, I would know what to do with my patient.
