Page 49 of Little Bird
God.
I rush down the hall to her bedroom, some part of my mind thinking that she has a better chance of recovering in her own bed than anywhere else, and kick open the door.
Her scent hits me full in the face and I stagger with it, but force myself to keep walking to her bed. This is no time to get sentimental or squeamish. Taryn needs me, and I’ve already failed her once tonight. I won’t fail her again. I lay her gently in the bed, my skin humming with her presence, and then start to search for injuries. A quick glance tells me that she doesn’t have any gaping wounds, thank God, and I lay her limbs out straight so I can start looking for broken bones. I hesitate at the thought of touching her, some part of my brain telling me that once I start, I won’t be able to stop, but I hush that voice with a single thought.
I’m not her stepfather right now. I’m a doctor searching a patient for wounds and broken bones, and there’s no space for hesitation. I have to know what I’m dealing with so I can make sure she’s okay.
I start with her neck, gently running my fingers along the sides of it and feeling for anything that shouldn’t be there. Nothing seems broken and she’s not bleeding from the head, so I count both those blessings and move on. Her shoulders are intact and her arms straight and solid. I don’t want to turn her over to check her spine, but a quick brush of my fingers on the sole of her foot gives me a twitch, and that’s good enough for me. Not paralyzed. Nervous system still functional.
Her legs are straight and unbroken as well, and by the time I get back to her feet, I’m starting to breath with relief.
Then I see the blood coloring the sheets under one arm, and I curse myself. I’ve missed something. Gabe said there was blood and I’ve forgotten to search for where it’s coming from. I move my fingers back up to her arm and turn it carefully, looking for the wound. It can’t be large or I would have noticed the bleeding earlier. Perhaps just a scratch. Maybe she got hit by some glass, if she crashed the truck. Maybe she?—
I find it quickly and pause. There’s a slice on the large pad where her thumb connects to her hand, straight and very clean.
Too clean.
That’s not a scratch from a branch or flying glass. That’s deep and very sharp, like it was done on purpose. And when I look more closely, I can see that it’s not the only one. There are a number of scars on her palm and up her wrist, each of them featuring the same straight, intentional line. Some of them are parallel. Almost all of them are healed.
Two aren’t.
My mind snags on that thought but I shake my head and pull needle and fishing wire from the first aid kit. I don’t think they’d stitch that wound in the hospital—it would probably just require glue—but I’m going to put stitches in it anyhow, to keep it from opening back up.
And tomorrow, when she’s awake, I’m going to ask what she’s been doing to this hand. And why.
By the time I’m finished stitching her up, I’ve forgotten about the conversation I meant to have. She’s warming up under my fingers, the blood starting to flow again, and the soft velvet of her skin has become a temptation I don’t want to ignore. She’s so young, her skin covered in a soft layer of baby fuzz, and I find myself drawing my fingertips slowly over her, reveling in the fact that I’m touching her. I’ve been hard since the moment I pressed the needle to her skin, and as I tie the last stitch off, I have to force myself to pull my hands away from her.
My hips tense with the need to thrust forward, though, and I allow myself one quick brush of my thumb across the head of my dick. The pressure on exquisitely sensitive skin nearly makes me cry out, and I try to get my brain to look past the hard, heavy weight between my legs.
I’ve stitched Taryn up. She doesn’t have any other injuries, and none of her bones are broken. What else did I need to do?
Warm her up, I remember. I brought her up to here to warm her.
I put a hand to her forehead, wondering whether she’s still in danger, and nearly jerk it back when I feel cold, clammy skin. Still in danger, then, and I should know better. I haven’t covered her yet or given her any of the hot water bottles I prepared. If she’s still that cold, I’m not sure the bottles will do what I need them to do, either.
She needs body heat. It’s one of the best antidotes to cold, and the oldest trick in the book.
In the current situation, it’s also the most dangerous. But losing her isn’t an option.
I throw every blanket in the room on top of her, tucking them carefully around her body, then move to the door and lock it quickly. I’m about to do something incredibly stupid, and the last thing I need is for Gabe to walk in here when I’m in bed with Taryn.
The thought of being in bed with her has adrenaline running through my body, though, and I can feel the blood collecting in my cock, my balls tightening at the idea that in moments, she’s going to be in my arms.
And fuck, that’s so messed up I can hardly stand it.
I don’t try to stop myself from thinking about it, though. The idea that I almost lost her tonight, that she could have died, fills me with guilt, and along with it, an overpowering desire. I want the girl. God, do I want her. I want to take her in my arms and bury myself inside her. Keep her in bed and safe, promise her the world.
I want to show her that she belongs here, and that we’ll never let her get hurt again. I want to possess every inch of her.
I strip down to my boxers, the rational part of my brain telling me that this is the best way to transfer heat and nothing more.
The feral, obsessed part of me is screaming with readiness, though, and I allow myself one last rational realization about how stupid this might be before I’m climbing into her bed and gathering her against me.
Gods, she’s cold. Her body is sluggish and freezing, and I wrap my legs around her, trying to get as much skin-to-skin contact as possible. Her temperature seeps into my skin, and I begin to shiver, but I don’t let go of her. If I’m shivering it’s because she’s taking my heat, and I’ll give her every ounce of my warmth if it means saving her.
She twitches in my arms, and I nearly draw back, horrified at the idea of her waking up, but then she settles more closely against me, her nose buried in my neck.
“Gunner?’ she whispers.
