Chapter Eleven #2
Luke apparently doesn’t harbor the same fear.
From several feet away, he rolls onto his stomach, then pushes up to his knees.
His black T-shirt is torn in the center and flapping open, revealing a strip of his abdomen.
I rip my eyes away before I can stare too hard, focusing on the lavender sky growing lighter with dawn.
“Shit,” he groans, getting to his feet and checking his leather jacket to ensure he didn’t lose any weapons. “Are you alright?”
“I don’t know.” I wince, pushing up onto my elbows. Now that I can breathe again, a sharp pang spurs my side on an inhale. Bruised ribs, but hopefully not broken. Bruised everything, if the pain in my arms and legs is any indication.
His hand appears above me as an offering.
I take it, letting him help me to my feet.
Not expecting the strength of his pull, I stumble into him.
His fingers dig into my waist to right me and sparks shoot up my torso.
With the station out of view at least a mile or so back, it’s just him and me and the towering trees.
“What happened back there?” Any concern that was in his voice a moment ago disappears like the train, replaced by a bite that tells me the plan has gone to shit and I might be to blame.
Pissed that this is somehow my fault when he’s the one who left me, I launch into an explanation.
“I stabbed the demon—her name is Melinda, by the way—and on her way to wherever the dagger sends her, she shouted that I’m a mortal.
That caught the attention of all the monsters, who, apparently, are mostly cannibals, which would have been such helpful information to know beforehand, thank you very much.
They were looking at me like I was a snack. ”
“You are a snack,” Luke snaps. His hands still press into my waist to steady me, but being this close to him makes me even woozier. I wrench out of his grip and put some distance between us.
“You flatter me,” I mock. His brows knit, clearly not catching the reference to the modern compliment. The guy probably hasn’t been on a dating app in his life, along with not watching any movies that came out after 1990, apparently.
“That wasn’t a compliment,” he retorts. “Here’s your next lesson: most things here will eat anything, including you. If not a demon desiring your soul or humanity, then a monster ravenous for your physical form. So yes, you are a snack to them. And you’re also bleeding.”
“Am not,” I say, like a petulant child. But when I look down, my right knee is soaked in red. The denim is ripped to reveal a mangled mess of skin embedded with bits of grass and gravel.
“Take them off,” Luke orders, nodding at my jeans.
“What?” I sputter.
He stares at me evenly. “Another train won’t come for at least a day.
We can’t wait that long. We have to continue on foot and find a car.
But the next town isn’t for miles. We should clean up your knee first. An infection will delay us even more.
So take your pants off so I can patch you up and we can stop wasting time. ”
He grabs his backpack from where it fell and starts rifling through the contents. I thought it was bad enough to send him a picture of my underwear drawer. This is a whole new level.
But I know he’s right. Leaving my knee untreated will only invite problems.
I slip off my boots and shimmy out of my jeans, wincing at the movement. I’ve never felt so ridiculous standing before someone in my underwear—a basic black pair of hipsters, though at least they have a lace fringe.
“Sit,” Luke commands, though the word sounds pinched.
He nods at the raised wooden tracks. I ease onto them and he drops to a crouch in front of me.
Despite his frustrated air, his hands are gentle as he straightens my right leg to peer at my knee.
I hiss in pain as the raw skin stretches with the movement.
He doesn’t apologize for it, nor does he apologize when a yelp flies past my lips as his fingers pry out pieces of gravel.
It sparks a memory of my dad doing something similar after I fell as a child rolling around the street with my chunky Barbie roller skates.
He scolded me for not wearing the matching kneepads, but his voice was laced with the same pedantic patience as always.
“You have disinfectant?” I ask, forcing the memory down.
Luke nods, pulling it from the first aid kit he took from his backpack.
He cups my leg, swiping a damp cotton pad across the abrasion.
I suck down a gasp, trying to focus on anything else.
Like when the last time I shaved my legs was.
There’s not a morsel of my soul that wants to care what he thinks of me, and yet that’s the only other thought in my head. It’s been a few days, at least.
“That should be good,” I tell him once most of the dirt and blood are wiped away. “Now you can go in with the antibacterial ointment.”
His eyes snap up to mine. Something flickers in them. Amusement.
“What?” I ask, peeved.
“You’re kind of back-seat driving me trying to take care of you. I know how to clean a wound.”
“Oh,” I say, not even having realized that’s what I was doing. “Sorry. Force of habit.”
“From when you were in med school?” He grabs a small tin pot from his backpack. “I’m going to use this balm, which should help the healing process.”