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)
Everything just needs to hold.
My hands are shaking so badly that the next stitch goes crooked. I need to move, need to do something with this energy crawling under my skin, but I can't because my hands are covered in his blood, and… and… if I stop stitching… what if he dies?
I try to bounce my knee, but it makes my hands shake worse. Fuck.
The next stitch goes in, and my vision blurs again. Tears or shock or both, I don't know, don't care. I'm humming without meaning to, some tuneless anxious sound, trying to self-soothe while my brain screams at me that this isn't working, nothing's working, I need to move—
“Erin,” Cavin says, his voice soft and slurred. “Look at me, love.”
“I'm busy saving your life, will you please shut the fuck up.” My voice cracks. I can taste bile in the back of my throat. I'm rocking now without meaning to, tiny movements while I work. “Jesus Christ, there's so much blood—”
“Erin.”
“I can't—if I don't get this closed—” Another stitch. My fingers are slick and red, and I can't tap them, can't flutter them, can't release any of this pressure building in my chest because I have to hold the needle steady, have to keep going.
“Look. At. Me.”
I meet his eyes, and the intensity there nearly breaks me. He's the one bleeding, the one with his head split open, and he's looking at me like I'm the one who needs saving.
But I do.
“You're doing perfect, love. Just keep going, my brave lass.” His hand finds mine and gives it a weak squeeze. “I love you. I'll never forget this.”
The words hit me hard. I choke on a sob, still rocking slightly, and force myself to keep stitching. I can fall apart after. After he's safe. After he's breathing steady and his eyes stay open.
Just hold on. Both of us just need to hold on.
I realize I've been holding my breath. My lungs burn as I take in air.
“Relax,” I tell him. “Just relax now, okay?”
But Cavin tries to sit up and immediately goes white. He's trembling. Fuck. Shock is setting in properly now. His skin is gray and clammy, and his lips are starting to lose color.
His left arm hangs at an odd angle. The goddamn shoulder.
“Shoulder’s dislocated,” Ciarán says. “Help hold him steady. Grab his hand, Erin.”
“Christ.” I exhale. “What are you—”
“I need to put his arm back in the socket. We’ve done this before. On three,” he says. “One… two… three.”
He pulls, twists, and pushes with his whole body weight.
The pop is audible and horrible, loud enough that even Ciarán flinches. The joint slots back into place with a wet grinding sound that makes my stomach heave.
Cavin makes a sound low in his throat—not quite a scream, more like a growl dragged up from somewhere deep and primal. His eyes roll back, and I fear he's going to pass out.
“He's a big man. I can't hold him if he—”
“Fuck!” He gasps. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”
“Done. It's done. It's back in.”
“Good,” he says, breathing hard.
This time, I can't help it. I fall to my knees, grab the wastebasket just in time, and heave up the contents of my dinner. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and take a deep breath. Got that sorted. I don’t have time to be sick again.
When I stand back up, Ciarán’s draped someone's jacket over Cavin's chest. He's still shaking, teeth chattering now.
“He's in shock,” I say. “We need to keep him warm.”
We're not done.
For once in my life, I’m grateful that the many trips with Bridget to the hospital have taught me a thing or two.
I check his pupils again, clean the smaller cuts on his face and hands. He needs a CAT scan and X-rays and proper care.
I think to myself… of all the fucking things in the world, he's going to end up at the same hospital as my sister.
But I already suspect he won't go, that he’d rather die on this couch than answer the questions that come with walking into an emergency room like this.
So I do what I can with what I have.
“You saved me,” he says quietly, catching my hands.
“You'd have done the same.”
“Course I would.” His good hand comes up, cups my face.
And I burst into tears.
“Oh, Cavin.” I collapse against him, careful of his injuries.
“Shh,” he says, holding me against his bloody, sweaty chest. “I know, love. I know.”
“Good. Then live. Don't die, okay?”
Declan clears his throat from somewhere near the door. “I'll give you two a minute. You alright?”
“Alright,” I whisper.
The door clicks shut. We're alone in the wreckage—blood on the floor, torn gauze and scattered supplies everywhere.
“Fuck,” Cavin mutters.
His forehead is still pressed to mine, and I can feel his breath, shallow and uneven.
“You could have got yourself killed, Erin. The gun.” His voice cracks. “You could have—it could have gone off while you were running. If someone had grabbed you, if that shot had gone wide—”