Page 77 of Nine Months to Bear
My breath catches at the sight of his torso. More scars than there are stars in the sky. Knife wounds. Bullet marks. Burns.
With a nervous gulp, I wet a clean cloth and begin cleaning the wound. I’m doing my best to ignore the heat of his skin, the rattle of his breathing, the laser of his eyes watching me work, but it’s hard.
I’ve treated hundreds of patients, seen countless bodies, but never has my pulse raced like this while disinfecting a wound.
“You need stitches,” I say.
“Then stitch it.”
“It’ll hurt.”
He chuckles softly and nudges the first aid kit into my hands. “I assure you I’ve had worse.”
Okay, guess we’re doing this.
I set the bloody towel down and take the kit instead. It’s hard to thread the needle with trembling hands, but I make do.
Stefan offers no help and says nothing. That’s for the best, honestly. If he touches me voluntarily, I’ll either combust, melt, or scream, and none of that is helpful right now.
But as I position the needle against his flesh, a sudden thought flashes through my mind—what if the bullet had been two inches to the right? What if I were trying to stop arterial bleeding instead of closing a graze? The thought of him bleeding out, of those ice-blue eyes going dim, hits me like a runaway train.
I have to bite back a sob that rises from nowhere.
Only then does he touch me. Stefan’s hand wraps around my wrist, steadying me even though I’m supposed to be helping him.
“Breathe, Olivia.”
I look away to hide my face. The tiny bathroom is warm from our combined body heat and the hot water from the sink tap is fogging the mirror. All the lines of the walls are blurred.
We could be anywhere.
We pretty much are.
Slowly, he relinquishes his grip on me. I miss his touch when it’s gone.
But there’s work to be done. I nod and try again.Disassociate. Focus. Do the job and nothing else.
So I do. One inch of thread at a time, I do what I was trained from the womb to do. When I tie off the final stitch, I let my fingers fall into my lap and sink to a seat on the edge of the tub. My eyes stay downcast, though even here, I can see how our knees are almost touching.
“Thank you,” I mumble. “For protecting me.”
“Is that all your life is worth to you? A ‘thank you’?”
I look into his eyes—and freeze.
Because there’s something there I’ve only seen once before—right when he was about to enter me and change everything for good.
Like then, I thinkthisis another of those life-or-death moments. Maybethelife-or-death moment. The edge of the diving board.
I’m standing on the precipice of something, tempted to dive headfirst into it. Intohim.God only knows what’ll become of me if I do.
We’re so close. Knees kissing, heat intertwining, breath warm and fragrant between us. He’s half-naked already.
If he leaned closer, or if I did, then we’d— then I’d— then…
“Stefan, I—” My voice catches. I clear my throat and try again, pulling my hand away. “The bandage needs to stay dry for twenty-four hours. Change it tomorrow morning and apply the antibiotic ointment in the kit.”
I lurch to my feet and grab the doorknob, desperate for escape. But it doesn’t turn the way I expected it to, and I struggle, I yank, I twist and rattle, but it won’t let me out, won’t let me run, won’t let me?—
