Page 40 of Peace Under Fire

“No can do, Princess. I need to make sure you don’t have a concussion before I pass out meds.” He almost added that her sudden preoccupation with blue eyes was especially concerning but managed to swallow the dig before it escaped.

“I told you, I’m fine.”

He added ‘short temper’ to his mental list of concussion symptoms.

“Any blurred vision?”

“No.” With a heavy sigh she turned to face him. “My eyes are fine.”

“How about dizziness or nausea?”

“No, and no.” She sounded resigned now.

“Tingling in your hands or feet?”

“No.” Another heavy sigh. “I just have a headache. That’s all. Nothing a couple of aspirin won’t fix.”

“Let me check your pupils. If they’re reactive, I’ll hand over the meds.” He unzipped the first aid bag, took out the top tray and rummaged through the bottom compartment for the pen light.

“What are you, the guardian of pain relief?” Her voice rose. “I know what I need, and it’s aspirin, not a bright light in my eyes.”

Her forehead was furrowed, her face annoyed. But damn it, she still wasn’t looking at him. He couldn’t see her eyes.

“Jesus, Mandy, we’d be done by now and you’d have your aspirin if you’d just cooperate.” He thought about grabbing her chin and forcing her to look at him, but he didn’t want to hurt her. When she turned her face back to the window, his temper spiked. “How about this, just pretend I have amazing blue eyes. So amazing you want to stare at them all day. So amazing you want to paint them.”

Stunned silence fell, followed by choking sounds from the front of the SUV.

But the taunt did the trick. Her head snapped around until she faced him. Furious brown eyes latched onto his face.

“You’re such an ass,” she seethed as he shone the light in her eyes. “If I’d known what a bastard you are, I wouldn’t have tried to save your stupid life.”

Oh, she was pissed all right. She’d just sworn at him—twice. But he shrugged her anger off. He’d never hid his assholery from her.

Her pupils reacted normally to the light. He clicked the pen light off, dropped it back in the kit, and handed her two ibuprofen tablets. She tossed the pills back and washed them down with a swig of water from the bottle she’d tucked between her thighs.

“The good news is you have no sign of a concussion.” He removed a plastic icepack and cracked it to start the chemical chill before setting it aside.

“I already told you that,” she snapped.

He ignored her crankiness. “But I need to clean that lump.”

And that was going to hurt. The impact had split the skin, which was now swollen and seeping blood. It wasn’t bleeding much—more like a lazy seepage of light pink—but the entire area was covered by a Rorschach pattern of watery red. Every time she’d touched the lump, she’d smeared the blood around.

He squirted antibiotic wash on a cotton ball and gently cleaned the blood away. She didn’t complain, but with each swipe of wet cotton across the swollen, split skin, she flinched. With each flinch, his gut tightened. As the pile of wet, pink cotton balls on the seat between them grew, his stomach twisted more and more, until it took to lurching.

Another flinch. Another hiss. Motherfucker.

His skin felt tight and itchy like it was about to crawl right off his flesh and bones

“Hang in there,” he said gruffly. “We’re almost done.”

Yeah, he was an asshole; he owned that, but he hated hurting her. Hated it. Hell, it was downright shocking how much he hated it. By the time he’d wiped all the blood away, she was stiff as a board and his hands were shaking. Shaking, for Christ’s sake.

During his fourteen years as a special operator, he’d stitched up countless wounds. Hell, there’d been bones to set and joints to manipulate back into place too. He’d even shoved that huge-ass-needle into several teammates’ chest cavities to release trapped air and blood, allowing their lungs to reinflate. And he’d done it all without losing his cool, or his lunch.

And without his hands shaking.

He smeared a thin film of antibacterial gel across the split skin and carefully taped a gauze square cross the wound.

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