Dax caught the back of his jacket before he could continue stalking forward and physically shoved him down onto one of the medical tables hard enough to rattle the steel frame beneath him.
Cole hissed through clenched teeth.
“Careful, asshole.”
“You heal crooked if you move.”
Vampire flesh closed quickly, but it wasn’t intelligent. If the wound edges shifted, the body would seal them exactly where they lay.
“I heal crooked because you stitch like a fucking serial killer.”
The medic started toward them with a trauma tray.
Dax held out one hand.
“We’ve got it.”
The medic looked from him to the wound hanging open across Cole’s abdomen.
“You very clearly don’t.”
“Sutures,” Dax said.
With an expression that suggested she was reconsidering every choice that had led her there, she shoved the tray toward him and remained close enough to intervene.
Clan warriors usually patched one another. Their flesh regenerated fast; the stitches only needed to hold the wound together long enough for the body to do the rest.
Malakai leaned against the far counter, cleaning blood from beneath his nails with eerie calm.
Dax returned holding sutures, gauze, whiskey, and a curved needle.
Cole immediately frowned.
“Why’ve you got the whiskey?”
Dax twisted the cap off with his teeth.
“For me.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
The first stitch punched through torn flesh.
Cole jerked violently upright with a snarl.
“Jesus fucking Christ—”
“You want me to stop?”
“No.”
“Then shut the fuck up.”
Another stitch.
Then another.
Each pull of the thread dragged the torn flesh slowly back together, Cole’s blood smearing across Dax’s hands and forearms while Cole gripped the edge of the table hard enough to bend the steel beneath his fingers.
