I grab the Lidocaine syringe.
“This is going to hurt. I can’t knock you out.”
“Do it.”
I inject the local anesthetic into the ragged edges of the wound.
Boyd doesn’t flinch. He just stares at me. His amber gaze locks onto my face. He grounds himself on me, using my presence as an anchor against the pain.
I grab the needle driver and silk suture.
Time to work.
The chopper shudders. The light wavers.
I time my stitches to the turbulence.
In. Twist. Pull. Knot.
I coax the severed muscle belly together. I close the deep fascia. I close the skin.
My hands run steady. My mind sets, cold and clear as ice. Not the woman zip-tied in a chair. Dr. Iris Kincaid, emergency trauma physician, fixing a patient.
Boyd tracks every move. My hands. My face.
“You’re good.” The words scrape over his lips.
“I know.” I tie the final knot and snip the thread. “Releasing the tourniquet. Slowly.”
I unwind the windlass. Blood rushes back into the limb.
My gaze stays locked on the wound.
It holds. No spurting. A slow ooze from the skin edges.
I slap a pressure dressing over it, wrapping it tight with Coban.
“Done.”
I sit back on my heels, wiping my bloody hands on my thighs.
The adrenaline dump hits me then. My hands start shaking. The reality of what just happened crashes down. The glass. The fire. The blood.
I sway.
Boyd’s good hand shoots out. He grabs the back of my neck. He pulls me down until my forehead rests against his chest.
“You got me,” he whispers into my hair. “You got me, Iris.”
His heart beats strong and steady in my ear.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
He’s alive.
I pull back, looking at him.
He runs pale, sweating, and exhausted, but he’s alive, watching me with a look that feels more dangerous than the storm outside.
