Tropical Wounded Wolf (Shifting Sands Resort 2)

“Don’t ever tell me to do that!”

Mary rocked back on her ankles, not even minding the shooting pain as she did so. Neal was snarling, pulling away from her. “No, don’t move!” she said, alarmed at how the bleeding ramped up as he struggled.

His eyes were feral and filled with pain, but Mary could not let him drive her away. “You lie still,” she said, as firmly and gently as she could. “I’ll do what I can.”

Neal subsided, the wildness in his eyes fading to only agony, and Mary unclipped the machete from his belt to use it to cut away the rest of his shorts.

The injury was shallow, she was glad to find, but it was dirty and bleeding merrily, even as his other scrapes and wounds seemed to be slowing. She balanced the machete between her knees and was able to cut her shirt—the only passingly dry article of clothing between them—into a bandage, but it wouldn’t be long enough to tie around his massive leg. She could tie the arms of her raincoat around him. It had stopped raining, at least.

She knew she ought to clean the wound first. “I’m going to get water,” she said.

Neal only growled.

Her handbag had been thrown clear, and Mary limped over and dumped it unceremoniously onto the sand to find her water bottles. One was empty, but the other was nearly full. It would have to be enough - she didn’t trust the water from the waterfall, and she knew that seawater wouldn’t do. She scooped up the first aid kit, too, wishing she’d brought a larger one.

Neal made a guttural noise as she washed out the wound. She wasn’t satisfied with the way the sparse water washed out the ugly flap of skin, but short of other choices, Mary didn’t know what else to do. The little drizzle of water seemed to get out most of the grit, and Mary squeezed the two tiny packets of antibiotic onto the gash. It looked like pathe

tically little against the long slice.

She folded her shirt onto the wound and wrapped the raincoat around it, tying the arms as tight as they would go.

She stepped back. “Well, that’s hideous,” she said. “But hopefully it will do.”

Neal gave an attempt at a laugh, but it turned into a dry cough and lapsed into pained silence.

Mary completed her examination down his legs to his feet, but found nothing else of great concern.

She returned to his head, frowning. “Neal, I’m going to shift.”

“Fine,” he said shortly. “Just don’t ever ask me to.”

“You’ll heal much…”

“Don’t. Ever.”

Mary knew a losing argument when she was in one, and backed away. She took off her soggy shoes and socks, wincing as her ankle protested the activity. Her own aches and pains were back with a vengeance, and even the simple act of undressing was agony.

She looked up to catch Neal watching her with warm eyes.

“You’re beautiful,” he said in a whisper.

Mary blushed. “Oh, no. I know I’m not.” She wanted to cover herself, but something about the reverence in Neal’s eyes as he looked at her made her hesitate to do so, instead letting Neal watch as she unclipped her bra and tried to get out of her soaked pants and underwear without angering any of her worst injuries.

“How could you think that?” Neal asked her.

Mary was so surprised by the question that she answered it frankly. “Well, I’m fat.” She had to sit down to pull the legs of her pants off, her ankle too fragile to support all her weight at such an awkward angle.

He laughed at her, and it was the most encouraging sound she’d heard from him since their fall. “You are not fat, you are glorious, and I adore every curve,” he protested. “Magnolia is fat, and she is the second most beautiful woman at Shifting Sands, so your argument has no meaning at all.”

Mary had no counter for that. She couldn’t doubt his sincerity, and it pleased her more than she thought it ought to please a modern, independent woman. “My hair is limp,” she added, but it sounded as ridiculous to her ears as it did to Neal’s—she knew it was plastered to her face with rain and sweat, and she could tell by the stinging of her face when she smiled that it was as whipped with branches as Neal’s was. She gave a mock falsetto and continued merrily, “My makeup is simply ruined, and my dress! Oh, my stars, I could never go to the ball like this!”

Neal chuckled, as he was supposed to, and sobered as his ribs reminded him how much that hurt.

“Seriously though,” Mary said, “I am going to shift now, and wander around to see about how we’re going to get out of here.”

“You do,” Neal said shortly, clearly in pain.

Mary hesitated. She had never shifted in front of anyone but family before, and she felt terribly self-conscious.