Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
We lower him onto the couch in the office, and his face goes gray.
“Get the first aid kit,” I tell Ciarán. “This is a fucking fight ring. They've got to have something.”
Ciarán looks at Cavin, who manages a slight nod, then disappears.
I grab the whiskey off the shelf—the good stuff—and pour it over my hands. They're shaking now, the delayed reaction setting in and the adrenaline fading, leaving me hollow and nauseous.
The whiskey stings the cuts on my palms, but I watch it turn pink and think, distantly, this might stain.
Can't fall apart. Not yet.
I turn back to Cavin, and in the office light, I see the full extent of it. The gash on his head is deep, at least ten centimeters long, and bleeding profusely. His left shoulder sits wrong, the joint visibly displaced beneath the skin. Bruises are already blooming across his ribs like dark flowers. And when he breathes, I can see how he favors one side.
Definitely a concussion. Or worse.
He could have… died.
That hits me like a physical blow. I stifle a sob. My knees go weak, and my stomach rolls. I'm going to be sick.
He could have died right there in front of me.
“Erin.” His voice is rough. “You're alright, lass.”
Even half dead, he's worried about me.
“And you're not, and I'm sorry. This is going to hurt.”
He grunts, rolling his eyes. “Not my first time.”
I've seen the scars marking his body, the evidence of the beatings he's taken. Fights. Every time, he survived something that should have killed him. My fucking husband with nine lives. The knife wounds and bullet grazes and marks from fists and boots and god knows what else.
But this time I was there. This time I watched it happen and tried to stop it—but couldn't.
Ciarán comes back with a proper first aid kit, military-grade supplies in a little case. Good. Illegal fighting rings have people who don't go to hospitals. They’re prepared for someone to sew them up and send them out.
Tonight, I'm that person.
I take the kit with shaking hands and open it. Gauze, antiseptic, surgical thread.
“Ciarán, I need a lighter or matches. And something clean he can… that he can bite down on.”
He produces a leather belt. Cavin eyes it. “Don’t bloody need it.”
“Scalp wounds are different. You're going to feel every stitch.”
I take a deep breath and steady myself. The gash needs to be closed.
“If it's an ambush, they'll be back,” Declan says. “Patch him up fast. We'll get him back to our house.”
“Right. Sew me up, Erin,” Cavin says, his eyes already half closed.
“Declan says—”
“Sew me up, lass. Can you do it? Could bleed out if you fucking don't.”
Jesus. Up close, the wound is worse than I thought. Deep enough, I can see the pale gleam of skull beneath bone and torn skin. It'll take at least six, maybe eight stitches. I don't know. I knit, I don't fucking sew human flesh.
I press a towel to his head to staunch the bleeding, my belly roiling.
“I've never done this before. Not on someone I—” My hands start to shake.
“Erin,” he says, his voice slurred. “You can do this.”
“I'm not a… not a doctor.”
“You're smart as fuck. Figure it out.” His good hand reaches up and catches my wrist. “Bravest fucking lass I know. You can do it. Trust yourself.”
Then he closes his eyes, and my pulse spikes.
“Cavin?”
“I'm still here. Just need to close my eyes a minute, okay?”
“No closing your eyes. If you fuckin’ die on me, you bloody bastard—”
“Not dying tonight, love,” he says, but his voice is weak.
“Hold his head still,” I say to Declan.
I thread the needle with surgical thread, my hands steadier now. Mam did this years ago. I saw her when my father came home from a fight outside a pub. I know I can do this.
I peel back the towel. Fresh blood wells up immediately. I dab at it with gauze, trying to see the edges clearly.
“This is going to hurt. One. Two—”
I don't wait for three.
The first stitch goes in, and Cavin's jaw clenches, but he doesn't make a sound.
“You're doing grand,” he says through gritted teeth. “Grand, lass.”
The fact that he's trying to reassure me right now while I'm literally sewing his head shut—
“You're delirious,” I say to him, but I can feel myself smile in the midst of it all. My voice wobbles. “Hush, love, and hold still.”
I lean down and kiss his sweaty cheek, brushing my free hand to wipe away tears, and go back to sewing. “I love you,” I whisper.
My hands steady. Another stitch. And another.
I tie it off and cut the thread. Blood is still oozing around the stitches, seeping through. “Ciarán, hand me that gauze. All of it.”
Another stitch. The needle punches through skin, and I feel it in my teeth. Nausea rumbles. The wound closes slowly, the work rough but functional. It just needs to hold.