I laid Asher gently on a stainless-steel examination table, the cold surface contrasting sharply with his feverish skin.
His leg was a mess, blood caking his jeans to the wound.
I grabbed a pair of scissors from a nearby tray and cut away the fabric, exposing the torn flesh.
The bullet was lodged deep, the edges of the wound angry and red.
I swallowed hard. I’d seen and caused enough wounds in my lifetime, but patching one up was a different matter.
My hands shook, just a little.
Get it together.
I found a pair of forceps, sterilized them as best I could, and then I dug into the wound.
Asher’s body jerked involuntarily, a low groan escaping his lips even in unconsciousness.
My jaw clenched. I hated this, hated seeing him in pain, hated being the one to cause it. But there was no choice.
The bullet clinked onto the metal tray, slick with blood. I cleaned the wound quickly, my motions automatic, robotic.
When the bleeding slowed, I wrapped his leg in layers of gauze, winding it tight enough to hold but gentle enough not to hurt him further.
I brushed damp hair from his forehead, his skin clammy beneath my fingertips.
“You’re not dying on me, hunter,” I whispered.
He didn’t respond. His breathing was shallow but steady.
I straightened, the exhaustion I’d ignored now weighing me down. We couldn’t stay here.
The hunters would come, and when they did, they’d bring more firepower, more bodies. I couldn’t fight them all.
I glanced out the back window, my eyes landing on the train yard beyond. Perfect.
I lifted Asher again, his body fitting against mine like a puzzle piece.
Moving through shadows, I slipped into the yard and found a train, the baggage car’s door left lazily ajar.
I climbed in, pulling Asher up with me, and slid the door shut behind us.
The car was dark, filled with suitcases, crates, and a musty smell of neglect.
I settled Asher on a nest of old blankets, the fabric rough but warm.
He stirred slightly, his face scrunching in pain before relaxing again.
I rummaged through the bags, pulling out clothes that might fit him, another blanket to ward off the night chill.
Finally, I sat beside him, my back against the wall, watching his chest rise and fall.
I should’ve been relieved. He was safe, for now. But unease coiled in my gut.
I’d killed for him. Fought for him. And now I was runningwithhim.
What the hell was I doing?
I ran a hand through my hair, the strands damp with sweat. Not long ago, I wouldn’t have dreamed of keeping secrets from Beric.
