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“He stabbed me.” He said in disbelief as I stood before him. “Hurts more than I thought it would.”
“Hurting is good. It means your body still believes you have a chance to fight. It’s the ones you don’t feel that you should be worried about.” I gave him a weak smile as a familiar calm washed over me. “Let me see.”
“Is that scientifically true?” He asked as I yanked his shirt from the waistband of his pants. There was no modesty when you were hurt, but he didn’t fight or push me away.
“I’m not sure. That’s just what I think.” Shoving up the fabric, I saw the deep gash below his ribcage. As he drew a breath, more blood oozed from the wound. I couldn’t tell in the dark how bad it was. “This needs to come all the way off.”
He didn’t have time to give permission. I popped the buttons free and pulled his shirt down his arms, moving efficiently without making his injuries worse. I’d had a lot of practice.
“Your hands feel nice. They don’t hurt.” He swayed on his feet again. “They’re sweet, too. I like it.”
“Thanks.” I had no idea what he was talking about. But talking was better than silence. “What’s your name?”
His brows scrunched over his forehead like my question surprised him. But before he could answer, his knees gave out. I lurched forward, wrapping an arm around his waist.
“Oh no, you don’t.” I groaned under his weight as I lowered him to the ground. I couldn’t have my patient bashing his head on the sidewalk.
His strength had been obvious while he’d fought my attacker, but I was still surprised at how heavy he was. His muscles were lean but packed. His abs rippled as I helped him lie on his back. My fingers brushed along the blood-covered ridges.
I’d seen a thousand shirtless men, all of varying degrees of attractiveness, but I’d never touched them like this before. Softly. Because I wanted to. Not because they needed my medical attention.
Which this guy did.
Shit!
Sirens started in the distance as I balled up his shirt and shoved it into the wound. He hissed in a breath as his head fell back. His eyes fluttered, but he didn’t pass out.
“Stay with me,” I whispered. “Help is on the way.”
“We should leave.” Brad’s voice shocked me. For a moment, I forgot I was on a crowded street. It felt like only us. My savior and I. “This isn’t our problem.”
My jaw clenched, and I pushed harder into the wound as the fabric saturated with blood. He was losing too much. Too fast.
“He literally saved my life. I’m not just going to let him bleed out.”
“It was only a mugger. And someone has already called 911.” Brad’s voice sounded frantic now as he tugged on my elbow. “We need to go!”
Cold-hearted bastard.
And he wonders why I left him. I saw even more clearly why he didn’t understand how important my job had been to me.
“Then go!” I shouted, shrugging to jerk off his hold. “But I’m not leaving.”
“Lark.” He said my name like a curse. It was drowned out by the sound of several footsteps.
He didn’t hesitate, taking off in the other direction. No doubt worried it would stain his reputation to be caught at a downtown club when a stabbing happened.
I shook my head but focused on my savior again. His lip twitched as he looked at me. “You did the right thing breaking up with him.”
“How—.” But his groan cut off my question. His jaw tensed with pain as I felt the rush of blood under my hands.
I needed to create more pressure on his wound, or he wouldn’t make it until an ambulance got here. I glanced down at his waistband, but he didn’t have a belt. Damn. Then I looked at myself, having momentarily forgotten what I’d worn.
The black dress reminded me of the flapper girls of the 1920s and tights. Perfect!
“Hold this.” I grasped his hands, pressing them into his balled-up shirt. He didn’t question me as I stood. His gaze stayed on my face as my hands slipped under my dress.
His eyes widened, those blues making my skin warm, but he didn’t glance down. A true gentleman. I yanked the tights off, kicking my shoes aside. I already had blood all over me; what was a little street dirt compared to that?
