Page 72 of Mistletoe

The bleeding stopped, which was helpful. With a fresh rag, she cleaned the uninjured areas and worked her way to the mangled flesh. As gently as she could, she dabbed at the lacerations. Hal’s muscles twitched at the contact; otherwise, he remained motionless.

“You bled quite a lot. That’s good,” she said.

“It does not feel good,” he grumbled.

“Wolver claws are filthy things, packed with bacteria and heavens know what else. It’s better to let the blood wash all that away than risk an infection.”

“It’s better to wash and disinfect the wound,” he said, his tone implying he was unimpressed by her approach. “I suppose I should be grateful you washed your hands.”

Snarky orc.

“I see, frontier medicine’s not good enough for you,” she teased. She grabbed the bottle of antiseptic and a clean rag. “We do have disinfectant, but you’re not going to like it.”

She poured the solution over the wound, letting it roll down his shoulder and arm. It was a messy technique but effective. Hal flinched and hissed as the disinfectant bubbled and fizzed.

“Oh, quit bellyaching,” Emma said, pressing a clean cloth to his shoulder. “We haven’t even gotten to the unpleasant part.”

“You are not helping.”

“This is helping, Hal. Quit squirming.”

“I will squirm or I will bellyache. Take your pick,” Hal said.

She pressed her lips together to keep herself from laughing.

With a new cloth, she cleaned the gore from his face. The scratches along his jaw and neck were shallow, despite being red and angry. They’d heal. She pushed back the strands of hair that escaped his braid and cleaned his brow. Then his cheeks. She traced the path of his facial scar across the bridge of his nose and down the other side of his face.

Her thumb brushed over his lips as the cloth continued its way down the column of his throat, over his collarbones, and across his chest. His features were harsh, but they were him. The landscape of the West Land was harsh, but it was her home, and she loved it. The two were inextricably tied together in her mind and in her heart.

“I think this will need stitches,” she said when she reached his shoulder.

“I can do that.”

“Hal, if that’s some sort of jab at my stitchery, I can be less mindful in my tender ministrations.”

“I do not think I could survive less tender ministrations.”

She laughed. It was the wrong response, but everything inside her had been building and building, and there had never been a moment to release the pressure. Her options were to laugh or crumble to the floor in a wailing heap, and Emma was not a wailing heap type of woman.

Hal looked baffled.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry, but a wolver just used you as a scratching post, and that would kill an ordinary man. You? You need stitches. That’s it. Then you have the audacity to sayI’mgoing to be the thing that ends you.”

“I am not an ordinary man.”

She sobered. “You’re not.”

“I’m your man.”

“I hope so.” She paused, suddenly shy about her emotions. “You know, you have not said it back.”

“Said what?” His eyes gleamed with mischief.

“Return my affections.” She held up the bottle of antiseptic and gave it a shake for dramatic effect.

Hal gasped. “You’re threatening me? That’s hardly going to endear you to me.”

“Return my affections,” she repeated. She brought the bottle close and tipped it over, threatening to pour the contents onto his wound. She wouldn’t. That would be cruel, but she had no qualms about threatening him.

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