24
THEY GAVE ME a local directly into my arm, and then Dr. Fields cut open the scar. Apparently he’d attended the same seminar as Matt, the EMT, so it was Dr. Fields’s first time seeing if the theory worked in practice. He was very honest about it. “I’m not a hundred percent certain it will leave you scar free, but it will probably make the muscle and tendon issue better.”
“So we could do all this and I could still scar and still have some mobility loss,” I said.
“Yes.”
I think I started to get off the examining table, but Edward was there, and he put his hand on my shoulder. He just shook his head. Damn it. Edward made me lie back down and held my hand like he said he would. Double damn it. An hour later, I was cut open, and the local had worked for that. It wasn’t pleasant, and the shots were a bitch, and I really hated feeling my skin part under the scalpel, but it was nothing to feeling my skin being tugged into place with a needle and stitches. That was always a creepy feeling even if it didn’t exactly hurt. Matt, the EMT, had forgone sleep to watch, and so had a lot of other doctors and interns. No one had seen the practical application of the theory and they wanted to, though everyone was in face shields and full gear just in case blood spread. It was technically contagious, though my variety seemed not to be up to this point. I was medical miracle enough to excite the med students all to hell.
Fields and I had already discussed that it needed to be the kind of stitches that dissolved, just in case my body tried to grow over the stitches. “You heal that well?” he’d asked.
“I’ve seen other people with lycanthropy do it. I’d rather not risk your having to operate on me to remove stitches below my skin.”
He’d just agreed.
We were about halfway through the stitches when the local began to wear off. “Painkiller is wearing off,” I said.
“We’d have to wait for the shots to take effect again, and you’re healing, Ms. Blake. I might have to cut more of the wound again and start over, or I can stitch ahead of the healing.”
Edward said, “Anita, look at me.”
I turned and he was on the side opposite the doctor. He gave me calm eyes and I nodded. “Do it,” I said.
I held on to Edward’s hand, gave him some of the best eye contact I’d given anyone in a while, and Dr. Fields tried to stitch me up ahead of my body’s healing. Even with the ardeur days from being fed I was healing too fast for normal medical help. Fuck.
Edward talked low to me. He whispered about the case, tried to get me to think about work. It worked for a while, and then the painkiller was all gone and I was still being stitched up. I couldn’t think about work. He talked about his family, about what Donna was doing with her metaphysical shop, about Peter in school and in martial arts. He was working on his second black belt. Becca and her musical theater, and the fact that he was still taking her to dance class twice a week, that amused me enough for me to say, “I want to see you sitting with all the suburban moms in the waiting area.”
He’d smiled Ted’s smile for me. “Come visit us and you can help me pick Becca up from class.”
“Deal,” I said, and then I just concentrated on not screaming.
“It’s okay to yell,” Dr. Fields said.
I shook my head.
Edward answered for me. “If she screams once, she’ll keep screaming; best not to start.”
Fields looked at Edward for a blink or two, and then went back to racing my skin up the cut. He had to tell me that he was finished. My arm was one mass of pain. It was on fire, or . . . I had no words for it. It fucking hurt from the start of the wound to the bottom, and past to my fingertips. I was nauseated with it all. I had only two goals: not to scream, and not to throw up.
Fields gave us some pills. “This should put her out for a little bit, let her body catch up with the damage.”
“How long?” Edward asked.
“An hour—two, if we’re lucky.”
“Thanks, doc,” he said. He took the pills, but I didn’t see what he did with them. The world had narrowed down to the piece of floor I was staring at. I was concentrating on my breathing, on just being and trying to ride the pain, or at least endure it.
“We’ll get a chair to take her to the door,” someone said.
I didn’t say I didn’t need one; I was afraid if I opened my mouth I’d lose the food I hadn’t eaten today. When I didn’t argue, neither did Edward. So I left the hospital in a wheelchair, pushed by one of the many medical personnel who had watched my treatment. It turned out to be a male nurse who tried to be chatty, and turned out to have all sorts of questions about lycanthropy. I didn’t have any answers, not right then.
Edward made me take one of the pills before he put me in the SUV. I didn’t argue. I couldn’t remember what Dr. Fields had said the pills were, but whatever they were they were strong, because the last thing I heard before I fell asleep, or passed out, was the purr of the engine, and Edward at the wheel.
When I woke I was in a bed, in another generic hotel room with Edward handing me another pill and water. I started to protest, and he said, “Take it,” in that tone of voice that said I could take it voluntarily or he could make me take it. Of all the people I knew, I knew Edward would do exactly what he threatened, which would be undignified if I couldn’t stop him from force-feeding me a pill, so I took it without an argument and sleep rolled over me before I could really feel how much my arm hurt, which was probably a good thing.
I didn’t so much wake as become aware that there was a man wrapped around me. For a moment, I cuddled his arm closer around my waist, wrapping him around me like a favorite coat, and then the extra closeness let me know he was nude, and since the only man I knew in the room when I went to sleep was Edward, that was a problem. My eyes were suddenly wide open, and my whole body tensed.
The sleepy voice behind me mumbled, “You smell good.”
I didn’t recognize the voice. Good news, bad news; good news, Edward wasn’t naked in bed with me, so that awkward moment had passed, but bad news, I had a naked stranger in bed with me. What the hell?
I tried to scoot away, but the arm tightened, and he drew me into the bow of his body, his head bending over and nuzzling the top of my head. I propped myself up on my elbow, turning so I could see who was cuddling me. White-blond hair with a streak of deep, dark red, and then soft, gray eyes blinked up at me. As Ethan raised his face up, I could see more of the gray highlights in all that pale hair, and all of it was a mass of little curls in a sleepy disarray.
He kept his eyes rolled upward so he could watch my face as he kissed my back. It reminded me of the way you never let your gaze leave your opponent in the fight ring, because they’ll beat your ass if you do. He laid that well-shaped mouth, with its deep dimples above and below his lips, against my skin, and watched my face. It was as if he expected me to be angry at him.
I frowned. “Where’s Edward?”
“He’s off with the police.”
I tensed, and again his arm tightened around me. “Was there another killing?”
“He doesn’t discuss ongoing police investigations with civilians.”
“You’re quoting him,” I said.
He nodded, and again he laid a soft kiss on my bare back. He kept his eyes upward, as if he really were afraid I’d hurt him. “What did you do that you feel guilty about?” I asked.
He blinked at me, and moved his mouth far enough back so he could speak. “I don’t feel guilty.”
“You look it.”
“You look and feel angry; I’m trying not to piss you off more. Tell me what expression you want on my face and I’ll try to give it to you.”
I smiled, a little, and sighed.
“Well, at least you’re not angry,” he said.
I realized I was propped up on my wounded arm. I looked down at it. The wound was a yellow and pink line of scabs. It looked days old. “How long have I slept?”