Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Asher
“What’s wrong?” I ask immediately, my gut clenching at how wobbly Kat’s voice sounds.
“I cut my hand with an X-acto knife.” It’s clear she’s trying to stay calm, but I can hear the panic just below the surface. “I think I need stitches. There’s… there’s a lot of blood.”
Fuck. I remember her telling me she can’t stand the sight of blood. She’s squeamish about it, gets lightheaded—that’s why she never got a tattoo. Protective worry floods through me, sharp and immediate.
“I’ll be there soon. Hang on, okay?” I spring up from the park bench, my mind racing through what I need to do, how fast I can get to her. “Keep pressure on it. Don’t look at it if you can help it. Keep your hand elevated above your heart.”
“Okay.” Her voice is weak and shaky. “Thank you.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Just hang on, bright eyes.”
I hang up, every atom in my body vibrating with the need to get to her immediately. Every second I’m not there feels like too long.
Edward is watching me, concern written across his face. “What happened?”
“Kat cut herself. Sounds pretty bad.” I glance around the park, trying to figure out the fastest way to handle this.
My car is in the parking lot, but I can’t just leave my dad here on a bench with his busted leg and crutches.
The urgency to get to Kat is clawing at my chest though, making it hard to think straight.
“Go,” Edward says immediately. “I’ll be fine. I can make my way back home on my own.”
I shake my head curtly, dismissing that immediately. “No. I’m not letting you walk back.”
When I scan the park again, my heart jumps as I spot a woman heading toward her car in the small parking lot. I recognize her. I’ve seen her around my dad’s neighborhood a few times when I’ve been over there working on stuff.
“Excuse me!” I call, already moving in her direction.
She stops, turning toward us with a slightly startled expression. She’s in her late fifties or early sixties, wearing a practical winter coat and carrying a reusable shopping bag from the grocery store.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m Asher. This is my father, Edward Vaughn.” I gesture toward my dad, who’s still sitting on the bench. “He’s a neighbor of yours, I think? There’s been an emergency, and I really need to run. Would you be able to give him a ride home? It shouldn’t be too far out of your way.”
Recognition crosses her face as she looks at my dad. “Oh, of course. I’m Audrey Hurst. I live two houses down from you, Edward.” She looks between us with concern. “Is everything alright?”
“My girlfriend hurt herself,” I explain quickly, the word ‘girlfriend’ coming out automatically even though part of my brain registers that I should probably be more careful about that. “I need to get to her.”
“Say no more.” Audrey is already setting down her shopping bag and moving toward us. “Come on, Edward. Let’s get you home safe.”
I help my dad up from the bench, making sure he’s steady on his crutches before Audrey takes his other side. Together we get him to her car, a sensible sedan that’s easy for him to get into. I watch for a second, making sure they’re situated and safe, then turn away.
“Thank you!” I call back to Audrey as I sprint toward my own car.
The drive back to the cabin feels like it takes forever, even though I push the speed limit every chance I get.
Every red light, every slow-moving car in front of me, grates against my agitated nerves, making my stomach churn.
I keep replaying Kat’s voice in my head, the strain in it.
The way she tried to stay calm while admitting she was scared.
What gets me most is that she called me. Not her sister, who’s literally a nurse, not her parents.
Me.
The weight of her trust sits in my chest, pushing me to drive faster, to get to her as fast as I can.
When I finally pull into the driveway and burst through the cabin door, the sight of her makes my stomach drop hard.
She’s pale, way too pale, sitting on the kitchen floor with her back against the cabinets, legs pulled up. There’s a bloody towel wrapped around her left hand, pressed against her chest.
Seeing her scared and in pain hits harder than any bodycheck I’ve ever taken on the ice. Harder than any injury I’ve dealt with myself.
I drop to my knees beside her on the floor. “Hey. I’m here. Let me see.”
“I can’t tell if it’s still bleeding,” she whispers, and I can see the fear in her eyes, the way she’s trying so hard to hold it together. “I kept pressure on it like you said, and I wanted to check, but—”
More color drains from her face at the mention of the blood, and I shake my head.
“It’s okay. I’m here now.” I carefully start unwrapping the towel from her hand. There’s a good amount of blood soaking the fabric, but it does look like the bleeding has slowed, thank fuck. “We’re going to take care of this.”
The cut is deep, running across her palm near the base of her thumb. A clean slice, the kind that comes from a really sharp blade. I’m pretty sure it will need stitches, probably more than a few.
“Can you move your fingers for me?” I ask gently, needing to check if there’s any nerve or tendon damage.
She demonstrates, wincing hard but managing to flex and extend each finger. The movements are stiff, clearly painful, but everything seems to be working the way it should.
“Okay, good. That’s good.” I reach for a fresh kitchen towel from the drawer, wrapping it carefully around her hand and applying firm pressure. “We need to get you to the hospital to get checked out and get some stitches.”
I help her to her feet, keeping one arm around her waist to steady her as she sways a little. After grabbing her purse from where it’s hanging by the door and checking quickly to make sure her insurance card is inside, I guide her carefully toward the door.
“Easy steps. I’ve got you.”
She leans into me as we walk to the car, and I can feel the way she’s favoring her injured hand, holding it carefully against her body.
In the car, I keep one hand on the wheel and reach over to hold her good hand with the other. My thumb strokes over her knuckles, trying to offer some comfort. She’s staring out the passenger window, deliberately not looking at the blood that’s slowly seeping into the fresh towel.
“Talk to me,” I say, hoping to distract her a bit. “Tell me what you were working on when this happened.”
“Reference photos.” She takes a shaky breath. “For the book series. I was cutting some thicker illustration board to mount them on, and the blade was so sharp. My hand just… slipped.”
She’s getting paler as she talks about it, and I squeeze her hand.
“You’re going to be fine,” I assure her. “We’ll get you fixed right up.”
She nods, but she looks small and scared in a way that makes something in my chest hurt. I want to fix this for her, want to take the pain away, but all I can do is drive fast and hold her hand.
At the small local hospital’s emergency room, I get her inside and up to the check-in desk. The receptionist smiles in greeting, wincing as she looks at Kat’s towel-wrapped hand.
“What happened?”
“Cut from an X-acto knife,” I explain. “It seems pretty deep.”
They get her checked in quickly, taking down her information and insurance details, and we don’t have to wait long before they call her name, thankfully. Every second of seeing Kat in pain makes my whole body thrum with the need to do something, fix something.
A nurse leads us back through a hallway to a small exam room. I follow close behind Kat, one hand at the small of her back.
“The doctor will be with you in just a few minutes,” the nurse says, helping Kat onto the exam table. “Try to keep that hand elevated.”
When the nurse leaves, I pull the visitor chair right up next to the exam table, close enough that I can hold Kat’s good hand.
“You okay?” I ask quietly.
“I hate this,” she admits. “Medical stuff. The smell, the sounds. All of it.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
The doctor arrives a few minutes later. She’s middle-aged with kind eyes and efficient movements, and she introduces herself as Dr. Lang.
“Let’s take a look at what we’ve got here,” she says, unwrapping the towel from Kat’s hand.
She examines the cut thoroughly, asking questions about how it happened, whether Kat is up to date on her tetanus shot, if she has any allergies to medications. Then she cleans the wound with saline solution.
“You’re going to need stitches,” she explains. “Looks like about eight, maybe nine. I’ll numb the area first with a local anesthetic, so you shouldn’t feel the actual stitching. Just some pressure and pulling.”
Kat’s face goes even paler at that, and I feel her grip on my hand tighten.
Dr. Lang starts prepping the numbing injection, filling a syringe with clear liquid. When Kat sees the needle, she tenses beside me.
“Look at me, baby,” I tell her quietly, shifting in my chair so I’m more directly in her line of sight. “Just focus on me. Don’t watch what she’s doing.”
Her eyes lock onto mine, green and wide and scared. I hold her gaze as the doctor administers the injection, Kat’s grip on my fingers become almost painful. Her nails dig into my skin hard enough to leave marks, but I don’t move, don’t flinch. Just keep my eyes steady on hers.
“You’re doing great,” I murmur. “Almost done with that part. That’s the worst of it.”
“Just a little burning sensation,” Dr. Lang says as she works. “That’s the anesthetic. It’ll fade in a moment.”
I watch Kat bite her lip hard, trying not to make noise. The sight of her fighting through the discomfort makes my jaw clench. I want to demand that the doctor give her something stronger, desperate to make this easier somehow.
The actual suturing takes only a few minutes. Dr. Lang works with practiced efficiency, her movements smooth and sure. Kat stares into my eyes as if that’s the only thing keeping her grounded, and I keep up a steady stream of quiet reassurances.
“You’re doing amazing, bright eyes. So brave. Almost finished now.”
“Just a few more stitches,” Dr. Lang adds, glancing up at us with an approving smile. “You’re a good boyfriend.”
The comment makes my stomach bottom out a bit, but I don’t respond, just swallow hard as I give Kat’s hand another squeeze.
When Dr. Lang finishes the last stitch, she sits back with a satisfied nod. “All done. Let me get this bandaged up for you.”
She applies antibiotic ointment and wraps Kat’s hand in clean white gauze, then covers that with a protective bandage as she goes over the wound care instructions.
After we check out at the front desk and make a follow-up appointment for the stitches to come out, I help Kat to the car. She’s looking better now that it’s all taken care of, some color back in her face. The fear has faded from her eyes, although she still looks a bit dazed.
Back at the cabin, I immediately shift into taking care of her. I settle her on the couch with pillows propped behind her back, then bring her a glass of water and the ibuprofen the doctor recommended.
“What else do you need?” I ask, scanning her face for signs of pain or discomfort.
“I’m fine.” She smiles wanly. “Really. You’ve done plenty.”
That’s not good enough for me. I can’t relax until I know she’s comfortable, until the tight knot in my chest eases.
“I’m making you some food,” I announce, heading toward the kitchen. “Your blood sugar must be low after losing blood. You need to eat something.”
She starts to protest, but I’m already pulling out bread.
I make us both peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, then bring them both into the living room.
She eats slowly, and I can actually see her getting stronger with each bite.
The color fully returns to her cheeks, the shakiness in her hands eases.
“Better?” I ask when she’s finished.
“Yeah. Much better.” She gives me a small smile. “I guess I really was hungry. Thanks.”
“Want to watch a movie or something?” I grab the remote from the coffee table. “Something mindless to take your mind off your hand?”
She fixes me with a look I can’t quite read, shifting her weight on the couch. “You don’t have to stay, Asher. I know you probably have other stuff to do today. Calls with your agent or whatever.”
I shake my head, settling onto the couch beside her. “Nope. This is all I need to be doing right now.”
I pull up a streaming service, and we settle on a comedy neither of us has seen before. She tucks against my side, and I wrap my arm around her shoulders, careful of her injured hand.
“Thank you,” she murmurs as the movie starts, tilting her head up a little.
I start to brush it off, to say it’s nothing, but she stops me with a look.
“Asher. Thank you.”
I swallow past the tightness in my throat. “I just hate seeing you hurt.”
She smiles a little, her eyes softening as she snuggles closer to me on the couch. We turn our attention back to the movie, but I’m not really watching. I’m too aware of her beside me, of the way she’s relaxed against me.
As the movie wraps up, I feel her moving a bit, shifting around like she can’t quite get comfortable. She adjusts her position, and her breast rubs against my side as she leans closer.
I look down, worried. “What do you need? Are you in pain?”
She looks up at me again, and when our gazes meet, there’s something new in her eyes. Something needy and hungry. When she speaks, her answer is just one word.
“You.”