Page 28 of Blood & Snow
Pale gray eyes meet mine when I enter, and I see pain mixed with fury in their depths.
"What happened?" I ask, setting down my medical supplies.
This is nothing like seeing a body in a puddle of blood.
I feel entirely unprepared and ill-equipped.
"Sokolov's men were better prepared than expected. One of them got lucky with a pistol shot before he ran off."
His jaw tightens against the pain.
"The bullet went through cleanly, but it needs proper cleaning and bandaging."
I approach cautiously, examining the wound while trying to ignore how close I'm standing to his nearly naked body.
The bullet hole is clean through muscle above his collarbone, blood seeping from both entry and exit wounds.
It looks like it was a clean shot that missed major arteries, but it’s deep enough to require stitches and professional medical attention.
"This needs a doctor, Xander," I tell him, "or someone with surgical training."
"You're the medical professional I have available tonight."
He removes the bloody towel, revealing the full extent of the damage.
"Fix it."
"Fix it? What the fuck? I took anatomy, not trauma medicine. You need a hospital."
His hand reaches for his belt and he produces a weaponfrom behind his back.
"I said, fix it," he growls, and my pulse leaps up until I'm shaking and feeling dizzy.
I open my supplies and begin cleaning the wounds with antiseptic solution, my hands trembling slightly as I work.
The medical knowledge I gleaned from first aid courses and anatomy classes is insufficient training for treating gunshot wounds, but it’s better than nothing.
I feel entirely out of place and overwhelmed.
He needs antibiotics or he's going to get an infection, but with a gun on the table ready to be used on me, I don't argue again.
Xander removes his belt and places it between his teeth while I irrigate the bullet holes.
The leather muffles his groans as the antiseptic burns through damaged tissue.
Muscles in his arms and chest contract with each wave of pain, revealing the full extent of his physical power.
And I find my eyes wandering, taking in the bronzed skin of his chest and stomach.
Scars cover his torso in patterns that tell stories of previous violence.
Knife wounds, bullet tracks, burn marks from cigarettes or heated metal.
A lifetime of brutality is mapped across his skin, covered by thick, dark swaths of ink he's used to cover it up.
I feel it pull to me, demanding that I notice.
"Hold still," I murmur while threading a needle.
