Page 112 of Tricked By Jack
“Jack,” Nick says, voice quiet but firm. “Let them work.”
Slowly, I turn Eve and lower her onto the examination table. She’s on her stomach to spare the lashes on her back, but that doesn’t stop her blood from immediately staining the white sheets. Her fingers clutch weakly at my shirt as I pull away.
“I’m not leaving,” I tell Carmichael, a statement, not a question.
The doctor doesn’t argue, just nods at one of the nurses. “Set up a second station. Mr. Knight needs treatment as well.”
“Focus on her,” I growl.
“We’ll do both,” Carmichael replies, already cutting away what remains of Eve’s dress. “Sit down before you fall down.”
I move to the head of Eve’s table as a nurse drags a stool beside me. From here, I can watch Carmichael work while keeping my hand on Eve’s uninjured shoulder, a tether between us that I refuse to break.
The nurse cleans my face with antiseptic wipes, the sting barely registering. My gaze remains fixed on Eve as Carmichael methodically catalogs her injuries. The bullet wound through her shoulder, the deep lacerations across her back from the whip, the knife cut on her cheek, and the rope burns circling her wrists.
Each wound leaves a hollow ache in my chest, as if it had been carved into my own flesh. I should have been faster. Should have known. Should have protected her.
“The bullet went clean through,” Carmichael reports, voice clinically detached. “No major vessels hit. She’s lost blood, but not enough to be critical.”
Relief washes through me, a momentary reprieve from the guilt consuming me. Eve’s eyelids flutter at the sound of my exhale, her gaze finding mine through the haze of pain.
“Still here,” she whispers, the ghost of a smile curving her lips.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I promise, ignoring the nurse as she cleans the whip marks across my back. The pain is distant, belonging to someone else entirely.
Carolina steps up behind me, one hand on my shoulder, careful to avoid my injuries. “She’ll be okay,” she murmurs, as much for herself as for me. “She’s strong.”
Nick paces at the periphery of the room, phone to his ear, handling the aftermath of what we’ve left behind. His voice is a low rumble of controlled authority—cleanup crews dispatched, Shelby secured, all traces of our presence at the warehouse erased.
The routine of it would be comforting if I could feel anything beyond the bruised tenderness of watching Eve being stitched back together. Every needle through her skin, every bandage placed, every careful cleaning of blood feels like it’s happening to me.
Carmichael works with methodical precision, her hands steady as they close every wound. “You’ll both need rest,” she says as she finishes the last stitch on Eve’s shoulder. “No exertion. No stress.”
Her gaze flicks between Nick and me, clinical assessment tinged with knowing resignation, and a heavy dose of scepticism.
“They’ll follow every order,” Nick answers before I can. “They’re staying here until they’re healed.”
I don’t argue. Here, under Nick’s roof, with guards and security systems and family watching over us, she’ll be safe.
“I’m putting her on antibiotics and pain management,” Carmichael continues, inserting an IV line into Eve’s arm. “She’ll need the stitches out in about ten days. The shoulder will take longer to heal completely.”
Eve’s eyes are closed now, her breathing steadier, the pain medication taking effect. Her hand rests in mine, fingers loosely curled around my palm. Even unconscious, she refuses to let go.
“Thank you,” I say to Carmichael, the words inadequate for what she’s done.
She nods once, understanding what I don’t say. Then she turns to the nurse tending my injuries. “Finish cleaning him so we can finish up.”
I submit to their ministrations without complaint, my eyes never leaving Eve’s face. The worst is over now. She’s alive. She’s here. She’s still mine. Everything else—Shelby, the warehouse, the blood—can wait.
One week passes. I measure time by the healing of her wounds—the stitches in her shoulder tightening, the cut on her cheek scabbing over, the welts on her back fading from angry red to dusky pink.
Every morning, I trace these markers with my fingertips, a ritual of possession and care. Eve watches me through half-lidded eyes, still drowsy with sleep, her lips curved in a smile that’s equal parts surrender and defiance.
“You’re hovering again,” she murmurs as I adjust her pillow for the third time this morning. We’re still in the guest suite in Nick and Carolina’s home. It’s become our sanctuary.
“I’m taking care of you,” I correct, voice low as I smooth the sheet across her lap.
My own wounds have mostly healed, but I still stay here with her, refusing to let her out of my sight.
