Page 76 of Ravens
“Dove.”
“Yeah?”
“We need to talk.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly with a slight nod as I move the ice to his shoulder. His eyes drift closed. “How’s your head?”
“Garbage.”
“Same,” I whisper offhandedly.
I step away and grab the painkillers, popping a few between his lips and helping him take a drink.
“Found some.” August comes back in and drops tweezers in the glass of vodka.
William moves me aside gently and then says a few things to York, including “this is going to hurt like a bitch.”
I back away, letting Carter take up the space I was in, until I bump the table and then fumble to find a seat. August rounds the counter and takes York’s good hand above his head as Carter pins his legs down. William fishes the tweezers out of the liquor and doesn’t give any warning before he goes into the wound.
My hands cover my face, two spaces for my eyes between my fingers as York strains beneath them in pain, trying not to throw them off. August grimaces under the force of York’s grip, but William’s voice remains steady, calm . . . I marvel at his control in the moment, his self-assuredness. Up until now, I don’t think I respected him at all.
A groan turns to a pained shout, and he tosses Carter off his legs, but Carter doesn’t give up and pins him back down.
A couple of minutes later, a metallic sound hits the melamine counter, and William douses the wound with alcohol. Yorkroars, pulling August across the counter as his body constricts with a curse.
“Stop!” I get to my feet again and shove him out of the way. “Jesus, stop.” I grab the ice pack off the counter and place it on York’s forehead as I lay a few squares of gauze over the wound. “I’ll sew him up.” I shake my head. I’ve never sewn a stitch in my life. “Just . . . pick rooms. You’ll have to make up the beds. The linens are in the closet.”
“Fine,” William murmurs as he wipes his hands and walks out.
“Can I stitch you up?” I lift the edge of the gauze. “Three, maybe four pokes.”
“Yeah.” York exhales heavily.
“It won’t be anything resembling a straight line.”
He laughs, shaking as he squeezes his eyes shut for a second, and I wipe the sweat off his brow with my bare hand.
“Here.” I put his hand over the ice, and he takes it, pressing it into his neck as I pick up the needle and thread.
I take a moment to arrange myself in a manageable position and then go for it. “First one,” I warn as I push the needle in.
“Damn.” His voice strains.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” I say as I push the needle through the other side of the wound and pull the edges together. “You hit your head . . . I was worried.”
“I got shot.” He groans as the needle goes back in. “Worry about the gunshot.”
“Just a shoulder wound. Relax,” I scoff as I tie the second stitch.
“At least I was kind enough to glue yours shut.” He curses under his breath as the needle goes back in.
“If we’re lucky, I have duct tape.”
His laugh turns to a hiss as I tie the third stitch.
“Last one, I promise.” My voice falls to a hush as I focus. I know he’s watching me, and I let my eyes flick to him but return my attention to the needle as I pull it through the skin.
This time he relaxes, closing his eyes and breathing deeply as I thread his skin and tie the stitch. I dribble alcohol over it one last time and cover it with fresh gauze, wrapping the whole thing in the tensor bandage.
