Page 52 of Beauty's Beast

She was sitting on the edge of the settee, looking like a bird poised for flight. She glanced over her shoulder as he stepped into the room.

“Sit down,” she said. “Do you have any matches? I’ll need to heat some water to clean your wounds. And light a lamp so I can see what I’m doing.”

“There are matches in one of the drawers in the kitchen.”

He sank back on the settee as she left the room. He could hear her moving about in the kitchen, filling a pan with water, opening the drawers, tearing a tea towel into strips.

Every muscle in his body ached, his wounds throbbed with a dull monotony. Overcome with weariness and a sense of hopelessness, he closed his eyes. How much longer did he have? How many more days and nights until the hideous transformation was complete?

He opened his eyes at the sound of her footsteps. She had lit a small lamp. He squinted against the light, his gaze moving over her. Her body had changed. Her breasts were fuller, her belly swollen with his babe.

She knelt at his feet. Lifting his right arm, she rolled up his shirtsleeve and began to wash away the blood. Her face paled as she stared at the deep gashes that ran the length of his arm. “You need a doctor.”

“No. No doctor.”

“But these wounds are deep. They need stitching.”

“Just wash them and wrap them up.”

“Why are you being so foolish about this?”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath in an effort to calm his anger. It was a mistake. Her scent rushed into his nostrils, warm and womanly and uniquely hers, reminding him of the nights he had gone to her bed, the pleasure he had found in her arms.

“Erik, answer me!”

“No doctor. Just do the best you can.”

“I … ” She swallowed the bitter bile tickling the back of her throat. “Do you have a needle and thread? I can … that is, I can try to … to stitch the wounds.”

“I don’t know.” He rested his head on the back of the sofa. He felt light-headed from the blood he had lost, and weary, so weary. All he wanted to do was sleep.

He heard the faint rustle of her skirts as she stood up. He wondered where she was going, but he was too tired to give it more than a passing thought.

Time passed. A few moments, a few hours, he didn’t know or care.

“I found a sewing basket in the bedroom.”

He grunted. Dominique had spent a few weeks here the summer she was pregnant. She had left her embroidery basket behind. He had promised to fetch it for her before winter set in, but he had forgotten, and then there had been no need …

The settee sagged a little as Kristine sat down beside him. Gently, she took his arm and laid it across her lap. “Hold still. This is going to hurt.”

“It already hurts. Just do what you can.”

He watched her face as she began to sew the ragged edges of his flesh together. She bit down on one side of her lower lip, her brow furrowed in concentration. He watched the color drain from her face as she guided the shiny silver needle through hisskin. Drops of blood ran down his arm, staining the cloth she had spread over her skirt. She swallowed several times and he knew she was fighting the urge to retch.

Well, so was he. He had a strong urge to laugh, to tell her there were worse things to see than a few bites and scratches. No doubt she would faint dead away if she discovered that a monster had fathered her child.

“That’s the last one.” She removed the bloodstained cloth from her lap, wadded it up in a ball, and dropped it in the pan of bloody water. “Can I get you anything?”

“No.”

“You should go to bed.”

He nodded, but made no move to rise.

“Do you want me to help you?”

“No. Go to bed, Kristine. You have a long ride ahead of you in the morning.”

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