He set her down gently. The bruise on her cheek looked darker now, a stark contrast against her pale skin. Her ankle was badly swollen.
“Wait here,” he said, knowing full well she wasn’t going anywhere.
She made a noncommittal noise, already sinking into the cushions, exhaustion finally claiming her.
Elliot moved quickly through the station, looking for more supplies. He found more clothes in a locker room and took a moment to change out of his wet ones. A storage closet revealed more blankets, and a pantry room was stacked with cans of food.
All right. It wouldn’t be a gourmet dinner, but at least he had something more to work with than protein bars.
Just like at Thwaites, the common room had a kitchenette with a small camp stove. He checked the cabinets there and found a stash of candy bars and hot cocoa mix.
Even better.
Next, he tested the hot plate on the stove and was relieved to find it working—a miracle considering how long the station had been abandoned.
He rummaged through the kitchen drawers and found a battered saucepan. He dumped the hot cocoa mix into it with some water, then, on impulse, added a double handful of mini marshmallows from a half-empty bag in the back of the cabinet. He set the pan on the camp stove and flicked the lighter.
While it heated, he raided the first aid kit in the bathroom for painkillers and compression wrap. He took the extra time to search the medicine cabinet for anything useful—and found a half bottle of vodka, which he pocketed without thinking twice.
Back in the common room, Rue on the couch had managed to pull another blanket over her head. The rest of her was limp, arms splayed across her stomach, her hands still trembling faintly. He felt a fresh wave of guilt at having fucked her so hard with her ankle in that state, but seeing her curl in on herself like this was infinitely worse. He wanted to give her more than hot cocoa and stew. Wanted to build her a new world where Maren wasn’t dead and Praetorian didn’t exist and Rue Bristow could be wild without ever risking her heart.
He set the mug of cocoa down on the rickety table next to her, then knelt by the couch. “Hey. Trouble. Got you something.”
She groaned, rolling until her face emerged from the burrito of blankets. Her hair was wild, sticking up in spiky clumps; her eyes were swollen and red, but she looked more herself than she had since finding Maren and the others. He helped her sit up, tucked the blanket around her shoulders, and pressed the mug into her hands. She sipped, then made a face.
“Jesus, how much sugar is in this?”
He grinned. “A lot. Might even be more marshmallow than cocoa.”
“Perfect.” She slurped another mouthful and closed her eyes, hugging the mug with both hands.
He set about wrapping her ankle while she drank, working slow and careful. She’d never say it, but he could feel how eachtouch made her wince; even so, she held rock steady and didn’t let go of the mug. He checked her fingers for circulation again. The frostbite scare seemed less urgent now, but her skin was still icy.
He finished the wrap, then rolled up a blanket to prop under her leg. “Keep that elevated. Doctor’s orders.”
That earned him a weak glare. “You’re not a doctor.”
“I was going to be.”
Finally, a spark of interest, of life, showed in her eyes.
“Really?”
“That was my plan when I started school, but…” He looked away, surprised by the sharp twinge of regret. “My family needed me. They needed a logistics guy, and I have a head for it, so I went into ROTC, got my degree in international relations, joined Naval Intelligence...”
“And never looked back?” she asked softly.
He shrugged. “Never saw much need for looking backwards.”
twenty-six
Elliot Wilde wasfull of surprises.
”What kind of doctor?” she asked as he went back to the kitchenette.
He rinsed the pan he’d used for the cocoa, then opened several cans of soup and dumped them in. But he didn’t answer.
“If you had followed your dream,” she pressed, “what kind of doctor would you have been?”
