Chapter 6 Claws – Amara
CLAWS
AMARA
AT FIRST, I thought it was a mistake, like maybe they bumped the door shut by accident, but I’m seriously doubting that now.
It’s been at least thirty minutes, and no one’s come for me.
I don’t get it. I just committed a serious ‘criminal’ offense in front of two guards, and instead of handcuffing me and sending me to my doom, they locked me in here … with an un-sedated gladiator.
I’m trapped. Locked in a box. Again.
I try everything to get the door open—pulling, pushing, kicking, screaming—nothing works.
I even toss a handful of bloody gauze through the meal slot in the door, hoping someone will notice it and let me out.
But when I check the hall through the slot a short while later, the gauze is gone, and I’m still here.
This is bad. Really, really bad.
My heart pounds in my throat as I lean against the locked door and try to keep my mind from revisiting that living morgue. My head throbs. Chest burns. And every time I close my eyes, all I can see is that bright square of light.
But I can’t keep spiraling. I need to calm down and get control of my situation.
I drop into a squat and push my hands against the floor in an attempt to ground myself.
I let my emotions flow without interference, and eventually, I find my way to acceptance.
I can’t do anything about the locked door.
I made a choice. I chose vengeance over a life of imprisonment.
Humanity over safety. I knew there’d be consequences.
Feeling a little steadier, I push myself back to my feet and let out a dark laugh.
If there is a God, they certainly have a sense of humor.
After years of dodging bullets in war zones, I finally retire, only to find my death on an alien planet, not in a war zone, while trying to save the life of a wounded warrior. Go figure.
A shaky groan pulls my attention back to Vexar. He’s stirring, but still not conscious. Which is good. His body needs time to recover before his brain gets involved. Also, Solta said he opted out of medical care, and I don’t know if he’s going to be pissed I kept him alive.
I glance at the long claws that tip each of his fingers and can’t help but imagine the kind of damage they could do.
If he wakes up and wants me dead, there won’t be anything I can do to stop him.
But I can’t just let him die. So, my choices are: Sew him up and risk him mauling me to death, or let him die and gift the Magistrate another dead slave.
Yeah. Option two isn’t happening.
I move to check his pulse, and the moment I touch his skin, a warm tingle shoots down my spine. It’s strange enough that I jump, but subtle enough that I’m able to ignore it. His heart rate’s holding steady, but without a baseline for his species, I don’t know if that’s a good thing.
“Any chance you know what your heart rate should be?” I ask jokingly.
When I glance up, my stomach flutters like a pre-teen girl seeing her first crush. In my defense, he’s shockingly beautiful. Beautiful in the same way a deadly ice storm is.
My eyes trace the sharp line of his jaw up to the high rise of his cheekbones and over the strong angle of his nose. Until now, I hadn’t taken a second to really look at him, and I’m … transfixed.
In the low light of the cell, his horns cast dangerous-looking shadows, like two black snakes curling up from his hairline. I’ve always associated horns with herbivores, but this guy is definitely not a herbivore. Everything about him screams, “predator”.
Even lying down, I can tell he’s at least seven feet tall, probably more, and so broad he looks almost stocky. I should be frightened, but the only emotion I feel is a quiet sense of awe, like the first time I saw a great white shark.s
My lack of fear is probably unhealthy, but considering my looming death, it sort of makes sense. Besides, I’ve already talked to the guy and he seemed … nice? Funny? Flirty? I don’t know. He just didn’t seem like a monster.
After getting Vexar and the surrounding area as clean as possible, I stare at the med-bag lodged beneath his thigh. Everything I need is in that bag, and I’m dreading having to find a way to dislodge it. The bag might as well be lodged underneath a fallen tree.
I bend at the waist, stretching my tired legs, and groan when I realize my knees are covered in Vexar’s blood. “Fuck, I miss pants.” Wearing a dress has its upsides, especially in the heat, but right now, pants would be nice.
I could clean my legs, but I have limited resources and I’d rather not waste them. Besides, I’ll most likely be dead before nightfall. No need to worry about alien pathogens if I’m dead.
With a final sigh, I move to the edge of the bed.
“Alright, Amara, time to suck the day’s dick.” I reach for the med-bag’s handles, and … can’t reach. Too far.
I swear, if I ever find the person who designed these rooms…
Setting my jaw, I climb onto the bed, reach over Vexar’s right leg, and pull.
No movement. Need more leverage.
I swing my leg over his right thigh, grip the bag, and stop when my eyes catch on the growing bulge between his legs.
Seriously? How does he have enough blood for a boner?
For a moment, it’s almost funny. Seconds later, my body reacts with a wave of lustful heat, and I panic.
I yank the bag and shout as it pops free, sending me tumbling backwards onto his thighs.
Naturally, Vexar lets out a groan at that exact moment, which sends me flying off the bed with a terrified yelp.
Somehow, he doesn’t wake.
Feeling my heart pounding in my throat, I shake my head. The reaction I just had was wildly inappropriate. Vexar’s an unconscious patient, having a normal bodily reaction, and I’m what? Getting horny?
Fucking hell, Amara.
I slam the bag onto the table and start digging through it while trying to talk myself down.
“Sometimes, uncomfortable things happen when you're a nurse,” I whisper. “I mean, usually it’s the patient who has an uncomfortable reaction, but that’s ok. Usually, the patient isn’t a wildly hot alien with a boner.”
Fuck… I drop into a squat in front of the table, breathing heavily.
“Ok,” I say gently, trying to soothe myself, “just shake it off and focus on the task.”
I get a makeshift workstation set up on the side of the bed, wave the sani-light over everything, tuck the extra pair of medical shears between my boobs—I’ll need a weapon later—and get to work.
Beneath the gauze, the bleeding has slowed, but the wound is bad.
It looks almost cauterized in places. Which is weird.
The only injuries I’ve seen out of the arena are from blades, opponents’ body parts, and blunt force.
Unless he was fighting a balrog or something, I’m not sure how this happened.
The good news is, I know how to deal with it.
If you’re wondering why I have experience stitching up partially cauterized wounds, the answer is simple: Marines do dumb shit when no one’s looking.
My only real concern with the procedure is the depth of the wound.
His fascia is nicked in a few places, and I’ve never had to suture fascia before.
But they say confidence is key, and after a few minutes of swearing under my breath, I stare at my handiwork with a smile.
His fascia is pulled back together with five neat little Xs.
It’s not perfect, but if I just keep doing what I’m doing, I think—
Something darts across my vision and latches onto my wrist.
It’s a hand.
Vexar’s hand.
A yelp bursts from my lungs as my eyes fix on those deadly claws. I try to pull away, twisting my arm in an attempt to free myself from his vice-like grip. It doesn’t work. I’m trapped. My lungs expand and contract at an impossible rate. Adrenaline burns.
My eyes snap up and…
Holy shit. Impossibly green eyes lock on mine. Alien eyes. My heart races. Skin burns. I open my mouth, but before I can make a sound, the familiar fog descends, the cold press of metal hits my skin, and my nervous system shuts me down.