Chapter 27 #2
My instinct is so strong that I do something I’ve never done before—I don’t listen. Pushing his door open, I’m pleasantly surprised to see it’s not locked. However as the door crashes against the wall, my eyes meet Nykander’s wide and incredulous ones.
He’s bare chested, his skin covered in all kinds of gashes and scraps. But it’s his side that makes me gasp aloud. Blood drips from an open, ugly wound, staining the front of his trousers. Some drops make it to the floor, joining the ever increasing wet mess.
On his bed are bandages haphazardly thrown around, alongside his tattered blouse. I now realize that he had never taken off his coat at the table, likely to hide the extent of his injuries.
I gulp down as it dawns on me how uncomfortable and in pain he must have been yet his expression never once betrayed that. How could he joke and laugh when he had a literal hole in his chest?
His sudden departure makes sense now. His bleeding had become uncontrollable; perhaps his pain too.
“How…” The words stop in my mouth. He’s the one hurting, so why am I the one feeling such an uncomfortable tightness in my chest?
“You’re not healing,” I end up saying, my eyes still on that big wound. The skin around is a mess, dark blood gurgling from the center. It’s almost as the wound itself is alive as it pulses out more liquid.
He nods grimly. “The effects of the Zantrax have worn off.”
So it was Zantrax that he was taking, after all. The knowledge only brings me more discomfort.
“L-let me help you with that.”
“You don’t have to—” He doesn’t get to finish his sentence as I’m on the move immediately.
I grab a large basin and fill it with hot water. From his medicine cabinet, I take all the items that might help, and find some clean towels. Bringing them over to his room, I place them on the ground and kneel in front of the bed.
“Moe, I can do it—”
“Stop.” I put my hand up. “You can’t even bend without losing more blood. Let me do it.”
“Alright,” he murmurs, his cheeks flushed.
Using a clean towel, I soak it in hot water before bringing it to the edges of his wound. He lets out a low hiss, his features tightening with pain.
I bite my lip. “Sorry,” I whisper. “Just bear with me for a bit.”
He nods.
More carefully than before, I dab softly at his skin, cleaning the outer portion of the wound before tackling the center. The moment I touch the inner part of the wound, the towel soaks in all the blood, becoming a pure red.
Just as I rinse the towel, I note that more blood is coming from the gash. Even if I apply the medicine on top of it and wrap it tightly in a bandage, it’s unlikely the wound is going to close by itself and he will just continue bleeding.
“I think the wound is too deep. I might have to—”
“Do it,” he grits out. “I can handle it.”
I’m not sure how true that is—both of him and me. I’ve never sewn human flesh before and he’s probably never had needles piercing through his skin. Still, this isn’t the time to dwell on such a scenario. With the amount of blood he is losing, it is paramount to close his wound as fast as possible.
Dashing to my room, I get my sewing kit. I make quick work of getting the needle and the thread ready, but when it comes to actually sewing his flesh, I falter.
“Are you sure you can do it?”
I shake my head. “Yes,” I lie. “I can do it.”
He gazes at me with worry, his eyes glistening. For a moment I’m stumped. He’s worried about me? He is the one bleeding out here, not me! Why is he more concerned about my sensibilities than his deadly wound?
“Lean forward so the skin presses together,” I tell him just as I lean closer to him to get a better look at he wound. Before I realize it, we’re so close, his hot breath fans over my head.
Focus, Moe!
I take a deep breath and thread the needle through the first layer of his skin. He lets out a pained groan and my hands still.
“All right?” I whisper.
He nods.
I grab onto the other layer of skin and pull the needle through.
His breathing becomes harsher.
“Continue,” he murmurs in a low voice.
I repeat the process, my fingers becoming a bloody mess. It starts obstructing my sight of the tip of the needle. My brows bunch together in concentration so I don’t hurt him carelessly.
Suddenly, I feel his hand on my cheek, his thumb making small circles on my skin.
I look up at him, startled. Sweat beads on his forehead, his face white and bloodless. The corners of his mouth stretch into a half-smile. His hand lingers on my skin for a second before it moves, pushing a lock of hair behind my ear.
“You shouldn’t get blood on your hair,” he adds sheepishly.
I stare at him, caught in the moment. The light weight from his touch is gone but for some reason I feel bereft without it. Shaking my head, I try to dispel all those odd thoughts and focus on patching him up.
I do a couple more stitches before I need to wash my hands off and pat some of the blood away from his wound so it doesn’t obstruct my vision.
It hurts him. I can tell. But he stays unnaturally still, bearing it all. The paleness of his skin contrasts with the redness of the blood, making him look rather ethereal.
He’s an immortal, bleeding in front of me. At my mercy… The thoughts sneak through my mind and I can’t shake them off. Raised to see immortals as these bigger than life figures, so powerful they could step on us at any moment and take away our souls.
But seeing Nykander…knowing him has changed everything. Immortals might have supernatural abilities, but they are just as fallible as us; just as prone to pain and suffering.
And despite the physical torment Nyakander is experiencing right now, I have a feeling his inner suffering is much greater.
I sneak a glance at him. His eyes have fluttered closed, his features shadowed with pain.
Before I can help myself, I reach for him, fitting my hand to his cheek as he’d done before. Surprise flickers in his gaze as his grey eyes meet mine.
“It hurts, doesn’t it?” I ask in a quiet voice.
His throat works as he swallows. My attention drifts lower, to his pink-hued lips and red tongue that peeks out.
“It is manageable,” he replies, his voice ragged and harsh.
“I am almost done. Bear it a little longer, all right?”
“As long as you need,” he replies heavily.
I retract my hand, heat traveling up my neck as I continue to stitch his wound. When I’m finally done, I cut the thread and knot it at the end. Then comes the powdered medicine followed by bandages.
I apply some of that powder to his other cuts too, though none of the other wounds are as bad, and none of them need stitches.
“Here,” I say as I hand him a small jar with a mix of anti-inflammatory plants I’d made a few days ago. “It should help prevent a fever.”
His brows go up in surprise and he looks at me questioningly but I shrug it off. It’s nothing special; after all, I wanted to ensure I’d have a fever remedy for him in case he fell ill again so the washroom incident would not happen again.
“Thank you.”
“Let’s get you comfortable.”
He lays on the bed and I pull the covers on top of him. Right as he hits the pillow, his lids become heavy.
“You should be more careful from now on, Nykander,” I whisper, still by his side.
His eyes closed, he mutters, “I made a lot of money. Tomorrow is my day off. I’ll treat you to something good.”
What? He almost bled to death and he’s thinking about money?
“Nykander—”
“There is a famous desert shop in Mesquine District. You’ve never been to the other districts, have you?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“I’ll take you. Get some cakes. I think there’s a big bookstore around, too. We can buy some books…” he grumbles. “Or clothes, or whatever you want.”
“Nykander, that’s not—”
“We have a lot of money, Moe. A lot,” he cuts me off. “I’ll get even more in the future.”
“Not if you have to hurt yourself. You can remove my wages if that is too much. I don’t like seeing you hurt like this, so please.” I take a deep breath. “Please don’t do it anymore.”
His steady, rhythmic breath tells me he’s asleep. He didn’t hear anything of what I said.
I let out a sigh as I sink to the floor next to the bed. My back hits the wall and I lean back in an effort to calm my chaotic emotions.
How is it that one person can elicit so many emotions from me?
From comfort to fear to comfort again… But is it really just comfort?
I glance toward his sleeping form and a knot forms in my chest—one that I cannot name or explain.
He is comfort, but it’s something else, something that makes my heart tighten with a mix of pity, sadness and…
Raising my hand, I press it softly atop his. To check his temperature, of course.
He’s warm but not burning. Instead, I find myself burning.
He said we.
“We have money.”
Not he. We.
I gulp down, more unfamiliar emotions surging forth. I press my hand tighter against his, slowly propping my head against his bed.
We.
It’s just a word, so why does it make my heart clench?