Page 61 of Duty Devoted
Lauren
Logan wasn’t doing well,and that sucked because Ireallywasn’t doing well. Exhaustion and pain had caught up with me when he’d made that satellite phone call to his team. I hadn’t been sure I’d ever be getting off that floor again.
But we’d made it here and were relatively safe for the time being. But this wound needed some stitches, I couldn’t do it, and Logan was looking shakier by the minute. I needed to find the strength for both of us.
“We need to clean and stitch this.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. The adrenaline that had carried me through the jungle was fading, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion that made thinking feel like swimming through mud. “What sorts of supplies do we have?”
Logan arranged what little was available with military precision—a first aid kit with sutures, some vodka, a few painkillers. I went ahead and took those. I was going to need them in my system as quickly as possible. He filled a glass withwater from the sink and used his water purification tablets. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than nothing.
“Okay, let’s do this.” He cracked his knuckles, a tell I’d noticed when he was forcing calm. The sound echoed in the small room, mixing with the distant noise of hammers and saws from the storm cleanup outside.
“Right.” I needed to be in control for both of us right now. “Peel away the shirt I used as a bandage first.” Clinical detachment was easier than acknowledging how much this would hurt. “Careful with the fabric. It’s probably stuck to the wound.”
His hands turned gentle as he eased the blood-crusted material away from my body. The cotton pulled at the edges of the wound, sending fresh sparks of pain through my nervous system. I kept my face neutral, but he noticed anyway—a slight pause, a softer touch.
The makeshift bandage peeled away sticky and dark, revealing torn flesh that looked worse in the last light of the day filtering through the window. Deep enough to need sutures, shallow enough that nothing vital had been compromised. Lucky.
“Fuck,” he muttered, getting his first real look at the damage. “I’m sorry.”
I settled back against the flat pillow that smelled of mildew and old cigarette smoke. “Wash it with water first, then alcohol. Don’t be conservative with either.”
He knelt beside me, positioning himself for the best angle, as I held the bowl under me to keep the liquids off the bed. “Ready?”
I nodded, trying to force myself to stay loose. The water brought relief, sluicing away dried blood and jungle debris. Pink rivulets ran down my side, soaking into the bowl. Then came the alcohol. White-hot heat raced along every nerve, stealing theair from my lungs. My teeth found my lip hard enough to taste copper, and my hands fisted in the rough blanket.
“Sorry.” His free hand covered mine where I gripped the mattress edge. His palm was warm, callused from years of handling weapons.
I nodded, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth. Now, it was time for the hardest part.
“Thread the needle. Smallest gauge.” The words came through clenched teeth. “Tissue’s already angry enough without using rope to close it.”
Silence stretched while he worked on the needle. I studied his face, using his concentration as an anchor against the burning in my side. His hands were steadier now as he threaded it on the second try.
“Start at the top of the wound,” I instructed. “Small bites, about a quarter inch from the edge. Pull through until the knot catches.”
He followed my guidance, making the first stitch with careful precision. The needle pierced skin, and I forced myself to stay still despite the sharp pain.
“Good. Now bring it across to the opposite side, same distance from the edge.”
We worked through four more stitches that way, him following my instructions while I tried to breathe through the pain. His movements were controlled, methodical. After eight, he was able to tie it off.
I was sweating, wanting to sob, but it was done.
He took the bowl and equipment back over to the sink then came back and sat on the edge of the bed, picking up the bloody shirt I’d used as a bandage.
“Just toss that.” It was useless anyway. I closed my eyes and leaned back against the wall behind me.
I was feeling a little better now that I wasn’t being stabbed with a needle.
“You okay?” I asked when Logan didn’t move. I expected a joke or a sigh or a comment about how long before we needed to leave to meet his team.
Still nothing.
“Logan?”
“My mom made me learn to sew when I was eight.” The words emerged distant, as if he were speaking from another room. “Said everybody should know how to fix things. Didn’t matter if you were a boy or girl, you should know how to mend what gets torn.”
His focus stayed on the cloth, but his breathing had changed—shorter, less controlled. “Made the ugliest pillowcase in existence that weekend. Used three different colors of thread because I kept running out. Mom displayed it on the couch for months anyway.”
