He gave me a look, baffled and a little panicked. “How the fuck would I know?”
“Scissors,” I snapped. “Kitchen drawer.”
Caleb bolted. Came back fast.
Between us, we cut the fabric away in strips, working around the worst of it. Some parts peeled off clean. Others clung. Fresh blood welled up where the cotton tore skin. It dripped down his ribs, soaking into the white leather beneath him, and I—I didn’t know how to stop the bleeding.
“Doc’s coming,” I told him, and he responded immediately.
Jamie attempted to shove us away. “Fuck. Don’t want that a-ass-asshole anywhere… near… me.” Jamie coughed.
“Don’t fight me on this.”
“How much?” He cracked open his red and inflamed eyes. “How much?” He tried to get up, shouted at us, but fell back on the sofa, mumbling about antiseptic and things that made no sense. Like I was going to tell him how much Doc was charging—I didn’t have a death wish.
Doc arrived, pushing past Caleb, and my cellpinged with an alert. “Payment up front,” Doc ordered.
I scrolled to the link and sent him what he’d asked for, not even blinking at the amount. Doc waited until something showed on his screen to say he’d been paid, and only then did he narrow his gaze at the blistered skin on Jamie’s arm. Ugly, wet burns, red-edged, and I hated to think how much worse it could have been if I hadn’t dragged him out. Then, he checked the bleeding on his shoulder and grunted.
“Shoulder needs stitches.” He poked at Jamie’s chest and lifted his arms. “No broken ribs. Burns seem okay, but I charge extra if I need to graft,” Doc muttered. “Hazard pay, if he bites. And double if he bleeds on my good coat.”
“Whatever.”
Doc’s eyes gleamed; money was his thing.
Jamie opened his eyes. “I d-don’t want Doc!”
“You’re burned,” I explained, and he tried to push Doc away, who grunted and forced Jamie’s arm down.
“I’m good,” he rasped, though the tremor in his voice betrayed him.
Doc pressed something caustic on raw, open flesh, and Jamie shrieked—sharp and guttural—his whole body arching off the couch. Tears streaked down hissoot-smudged cheeks, hot and unbidden, and he scrabbled at the cushions as if he could claw his way out of the pain.
“Who the f-fuck is p-paying?” he choked out between sobs that cracked in his throat.
“I am.”
He looked at me like that was the worst thing I could’ve said.
Doc’s hands were steady, impersonal as he bandaged Jamie up as if it were a chore, working fast and rough. For the burns, he flushed the worst of them with saline, then laid down silver sulfadiazine cream with the precision of someone who’d done this too many times to care. Gauze was applied in thick layers, taped at the edges to prevent the blisters from breaking further. When he reached the wound on Jamie’s shoulder—a gash edged in soot and blackened fabric—he cleaned it with antiseptic that made Jamie scream again, then used a skin adhesive to close the edges and stitched the worst of it without warning. No anesthetic. No comfort. Just speed, efficiency, and the cold silence of someone who saw bodies as meat to be patched and moved.
“Nothing is as bad as it looks.” He shoved a bottle of pills across the table without looking twice. “Take two. Or don’t. Not my skin peeling off. Pain worsens,or you get dizzy—go to the fucking ER like a normal fucking person.”
“What do we need to do now for his injuries?” I asked, already knowing I’d regret it.
“Google burn care,” Doc said, and then, he was gone, the door slamming behind him hard enough to rattle the frame. All that remained was the stink of antiseptic and smoke and the sharp reminder of why I never wanted to call Doc again.
“I didn’t need saving,” Jamie hissed, already shoving upright. His face was drawn tight, but the fury in his eyes hadn’t dulled—not one bit. “And you called Doc? Of all people? I don’t have the money for that shit.”
“You’d rather we took you to the ER and put you on the radar for any unexplained fires?” I deadpanned.
“I’d rather die than have a fucked-up asshole like him jabbing me with needles and charging me for every breath I take!”
“Maybe I should have let you stay in the fire.”
“Maybe you should!” he shouted.
I know he wanted a reaction. Something he could shout to prove he wasn’t already unraveling—something to spark, control, and twist back into power on his terms. That need for resistance, forsomeone to push until he broke, wasn’t just about anger. It was about permission to let go. But right now, whatever was in those pills was knocking him out, and I pointed to the bedroom.
