Page 25

Then Knox patted the bench for me to sit. When I didn’t move, he sighed heavily. “What you got against help, woman?”
A snarky remark jumped to my tongue, but it died when he walked over, holding up the jacket. The inside was sherpa-lined. I shivered involuntarily from the slight breeze that cut through the forest. Knox tried to rest it on my shoulders.
I snatched it from his hands. “No.”
Knox chuckled as I draped the heavy thing on. “Suit yourself,” he said, not unkindly, and retrieved the first-aid kit the other Devil insisted we bring. He set it next to the other one and propped them both open, digging inside. “Get over here, tough guy. Let’s get patched up.”
I stared at all the medical supplies that could both heal and hurt like a bitch—looking at you, hydrogen peroxide—and suddenly felt like I was a starving man, and that was the first scrap of food I’d seen in days. I had no intention of walking around looking like a battered victim, and if a Devil was the only one who could clean up my wounds, then so be it.
This was all temporary. I was just getting what I needed to survive. Then I’d be as far away from these shitheads as possible.
“Let me guess,” I said, finally padding over. “All of you know your way around a needle and thread.”
Knox snorted as I sat at the opposite end of the bench. “Nope, that’ll be our fearless doctor, Brody. We call him Chips. The rest of us can barely put a band-aid on without getting it stuck to itself.”
“That does not inspire confidence.”
“No, but would you rather do this all yourself?”
My first instinct was to snap, Yes, but then I caught a glimpse of my wrists in the firelight. No, I couldn’t do it alone.
I focused on the night sounds of the forest, the rustling trees, the crickets, the occasional hoot of an owl—anything to distract from the rough hands and fingers of my greatest enemy so gently tending to my scrapes and gashes. Every dab of alcohol on the cuts on my wrists and arms made me hiss through my teeth. I expected Knox to make comments on me being a girl for wincing at every little pat, but he didn’t. He just worked silently and efficiently, as if he had done this a dozen times, despite his claim of incompetence.
But when Knox moved to tend to my split lip, I recoiled. Vane’s face flashed in my mind’s eye. He had gotten this close to me. I would not let any man get this close.
Knox froze, gaze dropping slowly to the trauma shears I’d grabbed without thinking, holding them up like a knife. He huffed a low, incredulous laugh.
“You gonna stab me or let me finish? Put that shit down before you hurt yourself. Or you can help me cut gauze for my arm. Don’t forget you got to patch me up, too.”
Fighting embarrassment, I chucked the shears into the kit, making everything inside rattle. “Don’t expect me to be any better than you.”
“Definitely don’t,” he said, grinning at my sharp glare. “But I ain’t risking either of us getting infections from that glass. How old you think those fluorescents were?”
Knox’s tone was conversational, but I didn’t have the energy for that. I leaned in slightly for him to tend to my busted lip. “Just be careful.”
Knox was still and quiet for a moment, then cleaned it up with such tenderness that I thought I was imagining it.
“See, I’ll never hurt you, sw—” He stopped short for the second time on sweetheart. I didn’t know whether to be annoyed that he was still trying to be cocky or appreciate the catch. But those words? I had never heard them before. At least, not in this context.
My throat tightened, and I had to look away. Knox sighed again and moved on to my next injury.
Lucky for both of our social skill levels, that bottle of tequila was sitting just a foot away.
“Are you going to open that, or what?” I asked.
“Thought you’d never ask.” Knox popped the cap. “I have cups in the?—”
I took it from his hand and poured it down like water, and not something that could light my throat on fire.
Three swallows in, Knox snatched the bottle out of my hand. “Christ, Caroline!” He set it out of my reach and glared. “You trying to puke all over me?!”
I blinked away the burn, my head going fuzzy for a moment. I could hold my alcohol. But in my current condition, maybe not as much. Plus, I didn’t usually chug it down.
I propped my elbow on the table and dropped my cheek into my hand. “I’m trying to forget,” I said bluntly. I closed my eyes, but that made the world spin, so I forced them open.
Knox was watching me intently, scrubbing at his stubbled jaw in thought. Then he said, voice low, “I shouldn’t have brought that out. You drink like that, you’re gonna end up choking on your own spit while I try to stop you from swallowing your tongue.”
I reached for the water bottle and drank it less recklessly. It didn’t do much to help the lingering burn. “Better than remembering.”