But we were alive. And together.
Ahrick swayed slightly, his face going pale, and I caught his arm before he could fall.
"Sit," I said firmly, guiding him toward the bed. "Before you fall over and I have to pick you up."
"I'm fine." His voice was rough, strained.
"You're still bleeding." I pushed him down onto the mattress. "And you've been shot twice. So sit the hell down and let me look at it."
He sat.
Smart man.
I moved to the small cabinet where he kept his medical supplies, my legs shaking with exhaustion. My hands trembled as I pulled out bandages, antiseptic, needle and thread.
Then I turned back to Ahrick.
"Shirt off," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
He pulled it over his head—slowly, carefully, his face tight with pain. The blaster wound in his shoulder was ugly—a burn that had seared through muscle and tissue, leaving charred edges and raw flesh beneath. The chest wound was just as bad, though not bleeding any longer.
It should have killed him.
It would've killed a human.
But Ahrick was Vaktaire, built to survive things that would destroy lesser species.
I knelt in front of him and examined the wounds with hands that had cleaned injuries on horses and cattle and once, memorably, on my grandfather when he'd caught his hand on barbed wire and refused to go to the doctor.
"These need to be cleaned and stitched," I said quietly, meeting his eyes. "It's going to hurt."
"I know." His jaw was tight, his hands gripping the edge of the cot.
I poured antiseptic onto a clean cloth and pressed it against the burn without warning—because warning would only make it worse.
Ahrick hissed through his teeth, his muscles going rigid beneath my hands.
"Sorry," I whispered.
"Don't be." His voice was rough. Strained. "You're doing what needs to be done."
I worked carefully, methodically, cleaning away the blood and debris. The shoulder wound was deep, plowed through muscle and pelt, still seeping blood. The chest wound was deep but clean—the blaster's heat had cauterized most of it.
Small mercies in a universe that rarely offered them.
I applied healing gel on the chest wound and wrapped it in clean bandages. The shoulder wound needed stitches. My hands moved with practiced efficiency.
"Where did you learn to do this?" Ahrick asked, watching me work.
"My grandpa's ranch." I moved to the cuts on his arms—shallow but numerous. "We couldn't afford a vet for every little thing, so we learned to handle it ourselves."
"You're good at it."
"I'm competent." I cleaned another cut, my touch as gentle as I could make it. "There's a difference."
"No." His hand caught mine, stilling my movement. "You're good at it. You're good at a lot of things you don't give yourself credit for."
I looked up and found him watching me with an intensity that made my breath catch.
