Page 49 of Forged in Fire
For a moment, I think he’ll argue. Keep insisting he’s fine when we can both see the inflammation starting to creep in around the edges of the wound. But then something shifts in his expression—resignation, maybe, or just exhaustion finally catching up.
He shrugs out of his jacket first, movements careful and controlled. Then the shirt beneath, blood-stiffened fabricpeeling away from the wound with a wet sound that makes me wince in sympathy.
My God, he’s built like a freaking gladiator.
I tear my eyes away from his chest, focusing on the injury. Which needs all of my attention. The damage is worse than I expected. The bullet carved a furrow through the meat of his upper arm, deep enough that I can see the white gleam of bone underneath. The edges are red and angry, radiating heat that speaks of infection taking hold. I try not to shudder.
“Sit,” I order, pointing at the bed closest to the window.
He sits without argument, which tells me exactly how much pain he’s in. I get the feeling that Riven doesn’t take orders from anyone, but right now, he’s too worn down to fight me on basic medical care.
I settle beside him on the narrow mattress, close enough that our knees brush.
“This is going to hurt,” I warn, uncapping the antiseptic.
“I’ll survive.”
Probably. But watching him clench his jaw as I clean the wound makes something tighten in my chest. He’s in pain because of me. Threw himself between me and a sniper’s rifle without hesitation, like my life was worth more than his own.
I still don’t understand why.
“You’re lucky,” I say, dabbing at the deepest part of the gouge. “Another inch to the right and it would have shattered bone. Do your dragon abilities extend to enhanced healing?”
“A little.” His voice comes out rough. “Not like… yours.”
“Ah,” I say, not pressing further. I already figured out that this is a sensitive topic. He’s dragon, yet he can’t fly and has limited healing abilities. Still, I’ve seen him in action, and he’s a formidable opponent. Compensating, maybe? Or maybe he’s just naturally like this. Stubborn. Impossible. So damn sexy.
Not now, Iris.
I glance up at his face, studying the controlled blankness he wears like armor. But there are cracks in the facade—tension around his eyes, the way his breathing stays too careful and measured.
“You’ve been shot before,” I observe. It’s not a question. The way he holds still, accepts the pain without flinching, speaks of experience with this kind of injury.
“Occupational hazard.”
“How many times?”
“Does it matter?”
It shouldn’t. We’re temporary allies at best, strangers thrown together by circumstances neither of us chose. His history of violence and injury should be irrelevant to our situation.
But I find myself wanting to know.
“Tell me anyway.”
“Seven,” he says quietly, surprising me. “Including this one.”
Seven bullet wounds. Shit. “Where?”
“Thigh. Shoulder. Ribs, twice. Back. Arm—different arm.” He recites the locations like a grocery list, clinical and detached.
The casual way he says it makes my chest constrict. Like getting shot is just another non-event for him. Like his body is just a tool to be repaired when it breaks.
“I hope you’ve got good medical coverage.”
“Excellent,” he mutters.
We stay quiet for a few moments as I focus on what I’m doing. Which isn’t easy when I’m this close to the sheer magnetism of him. Even torn, his arm formidable, densely muscled. Sculpted.
