Page 94 of Worshiping Faith

“Think I scraped my calf,” he says lazily. “No big deal. Just grab me some water, a rag, and maybe a little of that magic cream you rub on boo-boos.”

My gaze snaps down to his legs. His pants on the left side are shredded, blood soaking the fabric.

Not a scrape.

Not even close.

“Fuck, Zachs.” I spin back to the supply table, forcing myself to breathe as I snap on a fresh pair of gloves. Focus. I grab the scissors and slice the ruined pant leg open, and almost pass out.

The wound is deep. A bullet tore right through the meat of his calf, and it’s still oozing fresh blood.

I shoot him a glare. “How the fuck did you walk in here?”

He grins like I just asked how he takes his coffee. “Because I’m not a bitch.”

“Zachs.” My voice shakes with frustration as I reach for the saline, already pressing gauze against the wound to slow the bleeding. “You should’ve been here immediately. This is serious.”

“Had crates to move,” he says, stretching back on his hands like he isn’t currently bleeding all over my freshly cleaned table. “And my bossy lover had girly shit to put in her room.”

I freeze.

Lover?

I press harder on the wound, making him hiss.

“First of all,” I say, voice deceptively calm, “I don’t own girly shit. Second, you were bleeding out, you idiot. Third.” I grab a syringe and draw up a local anesthetic, jabbing it none too gently into his leg.

He whistles low. “Damn, Doc. You mad?”

I ignore him, setting to work cleaning the wound, flushing it with saline, checking the muscle. He’s lucky, no major arteries hit. He’ll heal. If he stops acting like a lunatic.

“You stitched this already?” I demand, noticing the rough edges of what had to be a rushed patch job.

“Had to hold it together long enough to carry shit,” he says, not the least bit guilty.

“You stitched yourself up and then carried crates?”

“Well, yeah,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s fine. Just slap a Band-Aid on it, will you?”

I swear to God.

I stitch, my hands gentle even as my mind screams at him. He just smiles at me the whole time, watching like this is a damn date and not emergency wound care.

“It’s going to scar,” I mutter, tying off the last stitch. “I did the best I could, but the exit wound’s a mess. You need to stay off this leg, or you’ll rip it open again. Do we have crutches?”

Zachs snorts. “I’m not hobbling around on pogo sticks.”

“You have to keep weight off it, Zachs,” I say, exasperated. “If you…”

He leans forward suddenly, arms bracketing my waist, pulling me into him so I’m right between his thighs.

“Scars are my tattoos, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Admit it. You like them.”

Heat floods my face.

“You are a lunatic,” I mutter, trying to pull away, but his grip tightens, just enough to hold me there, just enough to tease.

His eyes spark with something dark and knowing. “Yeah, but I’m your lunatic.”