Page 97 of Of Sins and Sacrifice

Without a word, Mine swoops me in his arms and rushes me back to his tent—the brawl from before all but forgotten.

“But the dem?—”

“That can wait. It’s not as if we can do anything now, can we?” He raises a brow at me.

I reluctantly agree.

My face is screwed up in pain when my body jolts as Mine places me on the bed.

There’s blood all over his sweater and my dress, and the wound keeps leaking with no sign of stopping anytime soon.

I’m no stranger to blood. I’ve decapitated and mangled my fair share of corporeal demons in the past. But I’ve rarely been on the receiving end of such injuries. In fact, I think I can count on one hand the amount of times I’ve been wounded to the point of bleeding profusely.

By the Source, how can humans withstand this? How can they go on in life knowing that one little injury and their life can end? How are they not a mass of fear and anxiety?

Even now, as I attempt to regulate my breathing, I can sense a sliver of anxiety coursing through me. It travels up my body, splitting into a million tendrils that take control of every single part of my being.

My breathing grows shallow.

“It’s all right, tiny darling. You’ll be just fine,” Mine assures me.

I blink. For a moment, I’d forgotten he was here.

I grab his arm and squeeze.

“Take the bullet out, please,” I beg him.

I can feel that scrap of metal digging into my skin, jolting around with every single movement. It’s there—a foreign object in my body. And the mere knowledge that it’s there is making me spiral into an unprecedented panic.

His eyes widen.

“Are you…sure?”

“Just do it,” I grit out.

“All right.”

Leaving me on the bed, he turns to his desk, rummaging through his drawers. He finally finds what he’s looking for—a pair of scissors.

The first aid kit is still on the table in front of me, so when he comes back, I assume he will immediately get to work. The sooner the foreign body is out of my system, the faster my healing will be—well, as fast as the circumstances allow.

He cuts the sweater first. Since the wound is pretty high up on my chest, any movement of my arms would cause me unbearable pain.

But he doesn’t stop at that.

He kneels in front of me and grabs the hem of my dress, positioning the scissors and making a deep cut into the skirt.

“What are you doing?” I ask in outrage.

He blinks as he raises his gaze.

“Removing your dress.”

“W-what?” I sputter.

He frowns.“How do you think I can remove the bullet from your chest if you’re wearing clothes.”

“I…” I lick my lips. “Cut around the wound. You don’t need to remove my entire dress.”

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