Page 129 of Claim Me
He gives me a look like he’s about to roll his eyes but stops himself at the last second. "I have a medical degree. I’m a practicing physician, besides being a geneticist, Gabriel."
That’s enough for me. Without another word, I take off my jacket, noticing how tight it feels, then my shirt. This time I almost flinch but manage to hold it in as the torn fabric drags across the wound on my bicep.
I keep my composure, not making a sound, and sit down bare from the waist up, glancing down at my chest out of reflex. Damn, my muscles really are still pumped, even more defined than usual. Is that from the fighting mode? It lasts about forty-five minutes on average, and then comes the crash, a heavy drop in energy that can leave someone sleeping for an entire day.
Blue rummages through the first aid kit for a moment, a thoughtful expression settling on his face, a faint vertical line forming between his brows. His pale, slender fingers move with precision as he pulls out a stack of sterile gauze pads, a roll of elastic bandage, a small bottle of antiseptic solution, and a sealed pack of disinfectant wipes.
Then he turns toward me.
His gaze travels over my body a bit longer than necessary, and I hope he’s noticing how nicely my muscles are still swollen, and I catch the subtle movement of his throat as he swallows. It’s almost imperceptible, but I see the slight quickening of his pulse. Yeah, I think he likes what he sees.
He steps closer. In his hand, he’s holding a folded gauze pad and one of the wipes. He stops, and begins by carefully peeling back the torn fabric around my bicep.
"Hold still," he murmurs, his voice low.
He starts by pressing the gauze gently against the wound, assessing the bleeding before switching to the disinfectant wipe. The moment the antiseptic touches the torn skin, there’s a sharp sting.
At some point, his other hand comes up, resting lightly on my shoulder to steady me. The contact sends a sharp, unexpectedly pleasant shiver down my spine. It spreads throughmy entire body, and a breath slips out of me. The unusual side effect is that the pain in my wound disappears.
He notices my slight jerk, and his hand pulls back immediately.
"Did that hurt?"
I let out a soft chuckle.
"I’d say the exact opposite."
I can feel his hesitation, the confusion underneath it, so I add more quietly,
"If you keep your hand on me, the pain in the wound stops."
I hear him swallow again.
"That’s not possible." But his voice lacks conviction.
"And yet. Please do it while you’re working."
There’s a brief pause. Then, a little uncertainly, he places his hand back on my shoulder.
His other hand returns to the wound. He switches to a clean gauze pad, wiping away diluted blood, then carefully inspects the injury. His fingers move in a gentle way as he irrigates the area with a small amount of antiseptic solution, letting it run over the torn skin to clear out debris. After that, he presses fresh sterile gauze to dry it and gently brings the edges of the wound closer together.
The entire time his other hand rests there, the pain is gone. Not dulled, not distant, completely absent. Incredible.
I don’t know what’s causing it, whether the adrenaline is still burning through my system or something else entirely, but the whole process is free from any discomfort.
Blue finishes by placing a sterile dressing over the wound and securing it with the elastic bandage, wrapping it snugly around my upper arm without cutting off circulation.
"That should hold for now," he says quietly, finally pulling his hand away again. "It’s superficial, but it’s still a gunshot graze. It should be properly evaluated."
His eyes flicker back to the kit.
"And antibiotics would be advisable."
I shake my head slightly. "I’ll pass."
He closes his eyes. "Gabriel."
"I’ll heal fast." A faint smirk tugs at my mouth. "I trust my own system."
