Page 135 of Taken

Xavier returned. His deep brown eyes moved from Ridley’s pale face to the bloody hole in her lower left abdomen.

“She took a knife in the side?”

“Yeah. A silver knife. She’s a dhampir.”

His thick black brows lifted. I could see his intelligent brain working, but all he said was, “What can I do?”

“I need to irrigate the wound.”

He nodded. “I’ll boil up some salt and water and sterilize a meat baster.”

“That’ll do.” The salt water would clean and disinfect the wound, and I could use the meat baster as a syringe.

“You gonna stitch it up?” he asked.

“Nah. Better to leave it open so the silver can work its way out. If it gets infected, I might have to clean it again.”

Xavier left and I heard him in the kitchen, running water and putting it on to boil. I turned to Ridley, easing off her shirt and pants.

Her bra and boy-shorts I left on. They weren’t in the way, and the possessive beast in me who’d just realized I’d found my mate didn’t want another man looking at her naked body.

I threw away the shirt and put her pants aside to wash later, then turned back to her. Not only her face was bruised; red-and-purple marks and cuts marred her arms and torso as well.

My lungs fisted with a dark anger. I only wished I could stake George twice.

I pulled the sheet over her legs and went into the bathroom. I scrubbed up, then gathered gauze, self-adhesive first-aid tape and a pair of surgical gloves. Back in the bedroom, I set everything on the nightstand and pulled a chair up to the bed.

Ridley’s head moved from side to side. “Zaq?”

“Right here.” I took her hand and brought it to my lips. Her skin was clammy. Dismayed, I laid her hand back on the sheet.

Her lids fluttered again. This time she managed to get them open. Fever-bright eyes searched my face. “You—okay?”

“I’m fine. You’re the one with a goddamn hole in her side.”

She raised her hand and hovered it over her abdomen without touching the injury. “Hurts.”

My throat constricted. “I know.” My voice came out a froggy croak. I cleared my throat, tried again. “I’m going to clean the wound out for you, okay?”

“Tired.”

“I know, cher. Just let me get you fixed up and then you can sleep all you want.”

A tiny nod. Her gaze took in the room—the high ceiling, the king-sized bed with a leather headboard, the exposed brick walls on two sides of the room, the bronze pendant lights. Her fingers plucked at the sheet, a soft linen in a color my interior designer called fog but to me was a plain old gray.

“Where…are we?”

“In my loft.”

The corners of her mouth turned down. “Not safe.”

“It’s okay. I snuck us in and Xavier here—” the other man had walked in with a metal basin of hot water, a plastic meat baster and a stack of white kitchen towels—“will make sure nobody talks.”

“Oh.”

I got the nightstand from the other side of the bed and set it next to me. Xavier laid the baster, pan and towels on it.

“No one can know we’re staying here,” I told him. “Not my father. Not my mom. Not even Gabriel and Rafe.”

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