Page 36 of Captured By the Scaled Outlaw
Lowell wipes the sweat from his eyes. “But I don’t know my blood type. Won’t that be an issue?”
“I’m universal. I only asked your type out of habit,” I say, flexing my fingers to urge the crimson liquid to move faster. Dehydration has turned my blood to pudding, the slow creep making my skin crawl. “It’s not a lot, but I’ll transfer it to you once the bag is full. Hopefully, your wound will be stable by then.”
Mounting Lowell’s thigh, I straddle his hips and begin to unbuckle the belt of his pants.
“Like I said before, you’re going to make my blood pump twice asfast,” he says, no jest in his voice this time. His eyes are squinted, his face scrunched and laced with unease.
I smile at seeing the self-conscious discomfort on his face. It’s an uncommon but satisfying sight. “I need your belt to stop the hemorrhaging and your pants lowered so I can get better access to the wound,” I explain, ripping the belt from its loops while pushing his pants past the mess of blood and scales.
Lowell stares up at the ceiling, clearly not wanting to look at the gore. His grey scales look even paler, now.
“At least give me a kiss first before you undress me. You’re treating me like some kind of whore,” he teases, barely able to get through the joke without laughing.
I join him with sarcastic laughter, his wound not humorous in the slightest.
The injury is bad.
Reallybad.
I press my lips together, praying to Grandma for guidance in remembering her convoluted process for major injury care. I’m wracked with nerves and my mind is racing and reeling with each inhale of the musty, coppery smell. It’s suffocating.
I could let Lowell die, fix the bike, then leave,I think, holding my breath.
If I wait out the sandstorm, I could return to Nilsan as the hero who slayed the boss of Gaia 4. The feat would ensure the reclamation of my previous title and more. A promotion, even.
Lowell’s breath stutters, his fingers flexing into fists in time with the rise and fall of his chest. Something about the visual pulls at me, a warmth spreading across my heart down to each appendage until it has taken over completely.
The wisest choice to make would be to let Lowell tell me how to fix the cycle, then leave him to die. Any idiot would choose this option.
Instead, I slip on a pair of sterile gloves and get to work.
Chapter 14
“So… you live with your grandma?” Lowell asks between labored breaths. The blood bag remains firmly in his arm, the hemorrhaging wound stable for now. While I don’t have much faith it’ll hold, he’s in much better shape than forty-five minutes ago.
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” I reply, stabbing into the cut above his eye with a needle and thread.
Lowell winces, his tone curt. “You said to keep my mind off the pain. That’s what I’m doing.”
“I assumed you’d do it in your head,” I say. Snipping off the excess thread, I tie the suture above his eyebrow into a tight knot. As the pattern closes the scales, a pained hiss draws from his lips.
Frowning, Lowell lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Indulge a dying man, will you?”
I can’t help but crack a smile. He’s oddly dramatic and a huge coward when it comes to pain. But I suppose that’s because it’s an unfamiliar feeling for him.
“‘I know everything about you that has been written,’or something like that,” I mock, tapping my chin in thought. “That’s what you said, right? So what else do I need to ‘indulge’ you with? I’d just be boring you.”
Lowell glares, hot puffs of air blowing from his flared nostrils. “Oh, come on. You know what I meant. Your birth records, jobs, addresses — any form you’ve ever filled out. I know little about your real life orinterests.”
“And you suddenly care now? Why should I tell you something so personal?” I ask. My tone comes out harsher than I intended, and I regret it immediately.
A tenderness falls over Lowell’s face, his usual egotistical bravado drowned in cold sweat and desperation. “Please, May. I’m in so much pain, give me something to focus on.” His gaze finds mine, the amber gems glistening in the lamplight. “Please,” he says, his voice nothing but a gentle whisper.
I initially don’t believe him. His unusual begging for details about my personal life seems like an obvious ploy to upset me. But the longer I stare at him, the more the scars along his chest and face seem to deepen, his massive biceps seem to shrink, and his movements become more twitchy and uncontrolled.
It’s then I realize that his shaking is not just from blood loss. He’s scared. While this delights me at first, I feel the sinking twinge of pity rolling around in my stomach.
I guess it couldn’t hurt to reveal a bit of myself. But only abit.
