Ohmygodohmygod, this couldn’t be happening. I bent over him, wrestling with the harrowing seconds between terror and responsibility. Do something!
My pulse pounded past my ears as I spread my hands over the wound, unsure, helpless. He was the doctor, the only one here who could fix this.
Blood seeped between my fingers, and his face grew paler with each shallow breath. Please, open your eyes.
“Michio? Michio, talk to me.” My teeth sank into my lip, and I put my weight into my hands until I couldn’t compress any harder.
But the blood kept coming. It soaked his clothes, pooled on the concrete, and stained his neck. My hands were gloved in shiny red. My arms, my tank top, my lap, I was covered in it. I hadn’t seen this much human blood since that asshole sailor tried to saw off my boob in Dover.
A terrified noise rattled in my throat, and my entire body shook with tremors. I couldn’t stop the blood flow, didn’t know how to save him.
Jesse sat back on his heels and ripped off his shirt. Then he shoved the wadded fabric beneath my hands and pressed. “Doc? Doc?”
Michio’s eyes fluttered. Scared eyes, peering from red-rimmed sockets. “Roll me.”
Jesus, okay, still conscious and talking. That was good, right? My walloping pulse didn’t agree.
Roark rolled him, and I helped Jesse hold the shirt to the wound. A smaller circle of blood wet his shoulder blade.
Michio drew a shallow inhale. “Did it go through?”
“Yeah.” I found a tiny breath of relief in not having to remove a bullet. But his cheek was so fucking clammy under my hand. I swallowed past the helplessness wedged in my throat. “What now? How do we control the bleeding?”
“Doc?” Roark gripped Michio’s chin. “Tell us what to do.”
Michio’s eyes rolled back in his head, and his body slackened against the floor.
No, no, no! Determination seared up my spine. I ran fingers along the side of his windpipe, seeking and finding his heart beat. “His pulse is rapid, weak…God, it’s barely there.”
Jesse ripped away Michio’s shirt and used the scraps to stanch the exit point. I strained to hear each of Michio’s inhales as they teetered in, each breath as uncertain and fragile as I felt.
My guardians remained silent. Like the nymph, who lay on her back, dart in her neck. Like Amos, unconscious or dead.
Roark kicked the gun away from Amos and knelt beside Michio’s duffel bag. “Does he have QuickClot or Celox?” His accent strained with worry. “Surely he has something in here to seal it with?”
“I don’t know.” I should’ve paid attention to his supplies, should’ve been better prepared.
I swallowed hard and turned my attention to Jesse, his glare intense and blistering. I wanted to scream at him. See? This is what happens when you rely on others. I depended on Michio for all things related to first-aid. I didn’t even know if we had bandages or pain-killers.
Minutes passed. It felt like hours. I laid my hand on Jesse’s to take over the compress. But he left his there, twining his fingers through mine.
I cleared my throat and looked to Roark. “I can’t go through this again.” I reached out to touch Michio’s closed eyes and hesitated, my fingers caked in blood. I lowered my hand. “Michio let me grieve your death for days.”
At the time, I didn’t know he’d lied about Roark’s death to protect me. He was my captor, and I’d hated him vehemently. I wanted to die in that prison.
Roark met my eyes over his shoulder. “He might’ve caused ye that pain, love, but he didn’t give up on ye.”
No, he’d pulled me through those dark days on Malta. My lips touched Michio’s cold ones, his heart a faint beat against mine. I wasn’t about to give up on him now.
“You’re not escaping hell without me, Michio.” I hovered there, a breath away, until Roark gripped my arm, drawing my attention to the pouch of QuickClot in his hand.
He squatted on my other side, closer to Michio’s head, and pushed Jesse’s hand away to lift the sopping-wet compress.
Beneath the slick of blood, the injury seemed to…distort. My head swam. Not just from waves of panic and adrenaline. My brain wobbled and lagged with hallucination, like I was submerged in a dream. But it wasn’t a dream. His wound was transforming. Shrinking? No, that couldn’t be right. Had it stopped bleeding?
I blinked and leaned closer. “Water. Does someone have water?”
Jesse’s shadow moved away and returned a moment later. He twisted the lid off a plastic bottle and emptied it on the wound. The hole shriveled, paled.
“What the…” I shook my head and licked cracked lips. “Do you see this?”
Jesse reached across Michio’s torso, pushing me out of the way, as he bent down for a closer look.
Crouched beside me, Roark wasn’t looking at Michio’s chest. I followed his gaze to the tiny white points protruding from between Michio’s lips.