Page 8 of Promises in the Dark

I peeked out from cover, taking in the destruction. Bodies were scattered everywhere, some motionless, others twitching in their death throes. The insurgents had fucked us up and then disappeared, their job done with zero casualties on their side.

Then the pain hit—searing, blinding pain ripping through my chest. Something slammed into me, knocking me flat on my back. My head spun, my vision swam, and all I could see was the sky above me. I tried to move, but my body was done. Dirt and dust stung my eyes, the taste of blood filling my mouth, thick and metallic. The pain was unbearable, crashing over me in waves until it pulled me under into darkness.

I had failed. I’d let my team down. I fucked up the mission.

And I remembered every bit of that shit like it had just happened.

“The stitches didn’t hold.”

No fucking shit.

The words played on repeat in my head like a broken record. My eyes shot open, breath caught in my throat. I looked down, seeing the god-awful mess of stitches holding together the gash in my gut. The same damn doctor who patched me up was there, her hands still deep in the wound, blood oozing like a waterfall.

“I need more blood!” A nurse scurried in, gripping a blood bag like it was her life raft. She hooked it up to my IV, eyes wide and jittery, like she was about to piss herself.

"You’re in good hands, sir," she said in this sickly sweet voice, like that was supposed to calm me down.

I gave her a weak-ass nod, my vision still swimming, fighting to stay conscious.

“We’re doing our best to stabilize you,” Doc muttered, eyes glued to the wound as if sheer willpower would stop me from bleeding out.

A sharp pain cut through my body, feeling like fiery needles stabbing the shit out of me.

“Hold still!” she snapped, her attitude as sharp as the damn scalpel she was using. I let out a rough snort, pain twisting me into knots.

“Seems like your best isn’t good enough,sweetheart,” I said, letting the ‘sweetheart’ linger. Doc’s eyes widened, irritation written all over her damn face.

“Watch your tone, Lieutenant.”

“You watch yours,” I fired back, a weak smirk tugging at the corner of my lips.

The pain was unbearable, but pissing her off was the only thing keeping me from screaming. Her sutures burned like hell, and I could feel my temper boiling over.

“I’m not one of your men, Lieutenant,” she replied, her voice just as harsh and sharp as mine. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”

“Then treat me like your equal, Doc.”

The nurse flinched, her eyes darting between us, probably wondering if this was about to turn into a full-blown war. I couldn’t give two shits. My eyes were locked on Doc’s, and the tension between us was thicker than blood.

Finally, she broke eye contact, her expression softening a bit as she kept working on my gut. The nurse kept a watchful eye on the IV line, her eyes darting back and forth like a paranoid little mouse.

The pain in my abdomen roared with every stitch she pulled, every movement making it worse. But as she worked, something about the way she kept her cool stirred up some weird shit inside me.

“What, you running outta space? Gotta tie me down like a fucking animal?” I asked through gritted teeth, the pain still stabbing at my stomach.

“We’re just being cautious,” she replied, professional and unemotional. “It’s standard procedure for a patient that tried tocommit suicide or to escape,” she added, her hands still deep inside the wound.

“I’m wounded, not crazy,” I murmured, pissed off and exhausted.

“That’s what they all say,” Doc said in a dismissive manner. “Now, if you’d like to get out of here alive, I’d suggest you quit complaining.” Her cold, clinical tone was almost a relief. No bullshit sympathy. Just the facts. I could respect that, as much as it annoyed the fuck out of me.

For some twisted reason, I found myself liking her more. I liked that she didn’t back down from me, even though I knew I was being a pain in the ass. She didn’t take any of my shit, didn’t flinch when I came at her with my sarcastic crap. I could tell she wasn’t easily intimidated. And that, in some fucked-up way, made me less pissed at her.

“British, huh?” she asked, trying to distract me from the pain in my stomach.

My mother was.

“My apologies, love, for not sounding like a cowboy,” I replied with a sly grin, my accent thick as fuck. “But I suppose I could slap on a cowboy hat if that’d make you feel more like home.”

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