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I needed to stay fragile so he would buy my story, but even human, the shifter in me would heal quickly and draw attention to myself. However, my concerns melted away as the first spray hit me.
The water stung my cuts and scrapes as it cascaded down on me. Twigs and leaves fell at my feet when I wet and washed my hair, and I wondered what the hell I’d looked like when he saw me. No wonder I’d forced him to be nice.
Finally clean but definitely bleeding again, I tentatively dried myself. With toilet paper pressed to my head, I exited the bathroom wrapped in a towel. The thought of putting my dirty clothes on made me feel icky.
“There.” Vance pointed to the bed, where a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt were lying. “Can’t help you with underwear,” he added with a carefree shrug. “I gave you socks.”
“Thanks.” Picking up the items, I headed back to the bathroom.
“Nope, here first.”
I stilled, but there was something in his gaze that made me cross the room to him.
“Up,” he directed, tapping the table, and I moved onto it with a barely repressed groan. “Fucking knew they did a number on you,” Vance said with a scowl.
I didn’t correct him. I never mentioned it was because my muscles had seized and were aching from hugging a tree most of the night.
Vance stepped closer, and I unconsciously tightened my hold on the towel. To his credit, he didn’t even look down. He didn’t possess a gentle touch, and I flinched a few times as he cleaned the cut on my forehead and the other ones he found with his no-nonsense approach.
Cuts that weren’t too deep got large Band-Aids. He cleaned the scratches but left them alone after that.
There was no warning when he pressed the rubbing alcohol-soaked cloth to my forehead, and his grin when I cursed him out was the first time I relaxed with him. He opened a packet of strange fabric-looking strips.
“What are they?” I asked curiously.
“Steri-Strips,” he answered gruffly, picking up another bottle.
“What are they for? What’s that?”
“Glue.”
When I automatically jerked back as Vance went to apply glue to my head, his hand whipped out so fast that I flinched. Grabbing a handful of hair, his forceful grip held me steady. Bringing the glue to my face, he met my gaze.
“It’s medical glue. It seals the wound, doesn’t scar, and is quick,” he told me. “It also means I don’t have to stitch you up. Needlework isn’t my thing.”
“You have quick reflexes.”
He grunted but said nothing, and I held still as he applied the glue to my head. Carefully, he applied the Steri-Strips afterward, and I sat immobile throughout.
“You’re done.” Vance stood back and picked up his first-aid kit, shoving things back in the box. “Get dressed.”
Wordlessly, I got off the table, using the edge to steady myself. Picking up the clothes he gave me, I dressed quickly in the bathroom and collected my stuff.
Vance was on his cell when I came out. “I don’t give a fuck who has a day off, find them. Find the dick from the bar and whoever was with him and bring them to the barn.” I watched him as he listened to whoever was on the other end of the call. “I said I don’t give a fuck. Get it done.”
He’d changed into a black T-shirt and had put on a gun holster. I tried not to look at the gun he had placed inside it.
He tucked the cell in his back pocket and looked over at me. “You need to eat?”
He looked pissed, but I was hungry, so I nodded. “What are you going to do?”
“Not your business,” he told me. Vance pulled out bread and cheese and made me a simple grilled cheese sandwich. When he saw how quickly I ate it, he made me another one.
Finally finished, I watched him as he tidied his space. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” Wiping his hands on a towel, he looked around his cabin. “You good to go?” I watched him pull on a denim jacket, and I was happy not to see the gun he wore.
Standing, I nodded. “I am.”
