Page 45 of Dare

19

Jeryn

The ropes dropped. I moved with efficiency, unwinding from my locked position and seizing my knife from the thicket’s stockpile. Urgency had been a regular fixture in Winter’s medical wing, therefore I should be used to emergencies. Yet dread coursed through my veins, a shock to the system, which had consumed me from the moment she’d sprinted out of the rainforest.

Her features twisted. Stricken. Turmoiled. Those bloated features indicated a blockage, the sight more daunting than I’d care to analyze. If I didn’t school my expression, the way I had moments ago while feigning indifference, it would set her off. Already panic gripped the beast’s countenance, which exacerbated her condition.

I examined the berry quickly, then scooted closer. “Look at me.”

Her wild eyes stalled on mine.

“Much better,” I encouraged. “Now, keep your gaze steady and listen carefully. Your airways are compromised. It is difficult, but you must quell the hysteria.”

Wheezing, she nodded. Uncensored fear and trust shimmered in her eyes. This often proved the case with patients enduring physical trauma. Nonetheless, her open gaze found a crawlspace inside my chest.

The little beast spasmed, fighting to siphon oxygen into her lungs. With an outward control I didn’t entirely feel, I flicked open one of the slots embedded into the scalpel hilt. A rectangular plate of steel flipped into view, the surface reflecting sunlight and enabling me to cast the brightness onto her eyes.

“Steady,” I reminded her. “Eyes on me.”

Angling the plate and mirroring light beneath her lower lashes, I tilted my head to inspect her dilated pupils. The orbs eclipsed her irises, the gold having vanished.

Suffused complexion. Flared nostrils. Swollen tongue.

The berry she’d swallowed had been toxic.

Because she couldn’t achieve more than nodding or shaking her head, I asked a series of rapid-fire questions about what happened. While she responded, I retracted and sheathed the knife, pressed my thumb to the underside of her wrist, and assessed her pulse. Then I proceeded to the rest of her anatomy, checking her tattooed throat and windpipe.

In Summer and Winter, certain seeds released oils. If this was one such example, and if it had such an abrupt effect, she wouldn’t last. At this accelerated rate, consumption would prove terminal.

Two things. Excrete the seed before it emitted too much oil. Neutralize the traces of poison already infesting the victim’s system.

One, I didn’t know what ingredients the rainforest contained. Two, I also didn’t know how the fuck they functioned.

This environment gave me no choices but the antiquated ones. After urging the beast onto her back, I trailed my fingers over her stomach and moved upward, manipulating and pumping. Pressure, concentration, precision. With a jolt, she vomited—and a mangled seed projected from her mouth like a pellet, along with bits of mollusks and berry pulp.

I collected the seed with the pad of my index finger, grabbed a large shell from the supply pile, and shot to my feet. Stalking toward the ocean, I collected saltwater and returned to her side, where she’d resumed her upright position. After grinding the seed with a rock and mixing it with the alkaline fluid, I snatched her jaw with one hand. On reflex, she opened her mouth, and I poured the contents down her throat.

Fair enough. Saltwater tasted like shit. She gagged but kept it down.

I tossed aside the bowl and framed her face, my thumbs pausing under her eyes. “Inhale. Exhale.”

Talking her through the motions and mimicking the act, we fell into a rhythm. Her respirations eased, her pupils shrank, and that burnished complexion resurfaced. Then she sucked in a resounding breath.

Internally, I shuddered. Externally, I kept my face neutral, stony, composed.

Unaffected. Unruffled.

In certain cases, grinding the source and combining it with saltwater absorbed its toxins, thus counteracting the damage. I had not tried this method before. With Winter’s advanced facilities, I’d never needed to. It was hardly a guaranteed treatment, much less a reliable one, yet fuck. It had worked.

While her respirations returned to normal, she brushed her fingers over her neck. With a grunt, I batted the digits away and double checked her pulse, my hands grazing the inked collar. I instructed her to keep breathing and surveyed the rest of her vitals, then resisted the impulse to triple check them. It took longer than usual to feel satisfied with her recovery and even longer to pull away.

Once the unfathomable impact of touching the beast subsided, I retrieved the canteen and a fallen broadleaf, then watched as she drank, gargled, and wiped her mouth with the leaf. At which point, I remembered myself. Healing this woman had dominated my attention to an unbridled degree. For a moment, I’d doubted my ability to fucking think straight.

The former was common when ministering to patients. The latter was not.

Still. A physician would do this for anyone in dire need.

It. Meant. Nothing.

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