Page 140 of Veil of Death and Shadow

“I think maybe getting wasted isn’t the priority right now.”

“Trust me, it is.” He took a long drink, as if it was nothing more than an ice-cold bottle of water on a hot day. “I metabolize alcohol quickly.”

“Exactly how much have you had?” I asked as he took another very generous sip.

“Not enough. But it helps with the pain.”

“You know what else would help with the pain?”

“No hospitals,” he said again. “Can you sew?”

I glanced down at the package of needles and thread. “Not well.”

“Not well will do just fine for my purposes.” He shot me a look that was maybe supposed to be comforting and assuring, but it lost all verity when it ended in a sharp wince. “Where’s your bathroom, I need to get the wound cleaned up. Then we can begin.”

My stomach dipped at the thought, but I showed him to the bathroom anyway and helped him sit at the ledge of the tub without another word of protest.

When I tried to lift his shirt up over his head, he groaned.

I dropped the fabric back down, terrified of hurting him more.

“It’s out of the socket,” he whispered, face scrunched in pain. “How’d I miss that?” His eyes shifted to mine. “Can you grab me that bottle, Mars?”

I nodded, then rushed to grab it.

When I got back, he was attempting to cut his shirt down the middle, while also trying to balance his weight on the ledge of the tub.

He was failing at both.

“Let me.” I set the booze on the counter and took the scissors, trying to be as clinical as possible as I cut the material away, whispering a panicked “sorry,” when I had to slide it over his—now that I got a look at it—very-obviously dislocated shoulder.

Once he was no longer covered by fabric, I felt light-headed at the sight of him. His torso was a mottled canvas of bruises and blood—the worst stemming from the deep gouge in his stomach.

“It looks much worse than it is,” he said, catching my look of horror, “trust me. I’ll be fine.”

“Levi, there’s too much blood for this to be anywhere in the vicinity of fine. How the hell are you still standing? How did you even make it over here like this?”

He took another long pull from the bottle, until there was less than two-thirds of it left. If the blood loss didn’t kill him, the alcohol poisoning was going to.

Maneuvering around me, he positioned himself next to the door frame, his fingers bracing against the wood, expression determined.

Then, in one swift movement, he pushed forward. A deep, agonized grunt echoed through the bathroom as he shifted his shoulder back into place.

My stomach clenched and I stood there, stunned and breathless and hoping like hell I might wake up any moment to find this all a dream.

He kept his back to me, taking fast, shallow breaths through the pain, the muscles in his back contorting as he fought for control.

Though less disastrous looking than the front of him, there were still an impossible number of bruises and cuts on his back as well.

With as little pressure as possible, I set my fingers on his good shoulder, trying to offer comfort, even though I knew how futile the gesture was.

He shivered at my touch, then leaned into it a bit. After a moment, his breathing evened out and he turned to face me, most of the pain now washed from his expression. “Can you start the water? Not too cold, not too hot.”

I did as he asked, because it was becoming abundantly clear that no matter how much I wanted him to come to the same realization I had—that this was a ridiculous project, he needed to see anactualdoctor—he was going to do this, with or without my help.

He kicked off his pants but kept his boxers on as he stepped under the stream.

I averted my gaze—keeping it on his face to interpret his now stoic expression, or else on the floor of the tub, where the red-stained water slipped down the drain.

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