Page 87 of Heartless Vows

“Press hard,” he demands.

Aurora closes her eyes and digs her nails into the back of my fingers. I shift my hand, keeping her wrists pinned to the floor, but offering her a better grip. I press my shirt against her wound.

Fiero passes his phone to the soldier helping him and tells him to speed dial the guy labeleddoc. The man starts the call and puts it on speaker.

“It’s not stopping! She’s bleeding too much,” Tristan panics.

Aurora shakes her head.

“Another. On my back.”

Fuck, she’s going into shock. She’s too pale. Too lethargic.

She hasn’t lostthatmuch blood, but there’s no denying her condition.

I roll her onto her side and, with the help of my soldier, pull her arm out of both my suit sleeve and her bra strap, and curse at the long, shallow laceration across her shoulder blades. I pass the rib compression over to my man and cup her shoulder to hold her in place as Tristan tears open another pouch.

“You’ll be okay,mia topolina.” I don’t know if I’m reassuring her or myself, but I need to say something as Tristan pours the powder into her wound. “We’ll patch you up and get you to my doctor—”

“She needs the hospital. Papa’s physician couldn’t help her at home, so shealwayshad to go to the hospital,” Tristan demands as he whips his shirt over his head and presses it to her back.

She groans and passes out for a few seconds before shivering awake.

“What’s her condition called?” the doctor asks through the speaker.

Aurora’s sluggish answer lodges a rock in my chest.

“Congenital sideroblastic anemia.”

After a slight pause, my personal physician answers in his calm, no nonsense manner.

“Bring her to my clinic. I’ll have a blood transfusion ready. Keep pressure on her wounds, even if you think the bleeding has slowed.”

I curse and growl a confirmation before leaning forward and hooking her arm around my nape, preparing to roll her into my arms and stand.

“I’m sorry, Aurora. This is going to hurt,” I apologize.

She shakes her head.

“No, get someone else. You’re bleeding. Don’t carry me.”

“I’m not letting anyone else put their hands on you, and I need you in my arms where I can assure myself you’re okay, so be still and let me take care of you,” I snarl.

At my nod, my soldier helps roll her side against my chest, maintaining pressure on her wound as I wrap my arm around her back—over her laceration—and curl her tight to me. When I squeeze too hard, she wheezes and digs her nails into my nape, so I loosen just enough for her ribs to expand over a comfortable breath. I thread my other arm under her knees and rise.

“Get me a blanket or something to cover her with,” I snarl.

I know she’s injured, but I don’t like knowing other men’s eyes roam over her naked body. She’s mine.

“No. Cold is good. Slows bleeding,” she murmurs.

I demand my soldier drape the blanket over her anyway.

“Hey, boss, toss me one of them packets. I’ll stay behind and oversee clean up,” Fiero says.

When I nod, Tristan balks.

“But you’re shot!”

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