"Shoulder wound needs cleaning," she says to Celeste. "Examination table three. I'll send someone."
"I've got it," I say.
Elena's eyebrows rise slightly, but she doesn't comment. Just nods and turns back to her coordination.
Celeste tries to wave off the treatment as we make our way to the indicated table. "I'm fine. There are others who need…"
"Sit down." I guide her to the table with a hand on her lower back, feeling the tension in her muscles.
"Maximus, I can?—"
"You can sit down and let me look at you, or I can carry you to this table. Your choice." My voice comes out rougher than I intend. "I just watched a stake come within an inch of your heart. Give me this."
Something in her expression softens. "Okay."
"Let me see," I say, reaching for the medical supplies.
"You're not a healer."
"I've been treating wounds since before modern medicine existed. Since before this country existed." I gather supplies from a nearby cabinet: antiseptic, a clean cloth, and bandages. "Sit."
She sits. But her jaw is set, her eyes tracking my movements with wariness.
"Take off your shirt," I say.
One eyebrow arches. "Here?"
"I need to see the wound."
"I'm sure you do."
Despite everything, the battle, the blood, the fear that's still clenched around my heart like a fist, I almost smile. "Celeste."
"Fine." She reaches for the hem, then winces as the movement pulls at her shoulder. "Little help?"
I move closer. My fingers find the ruined fabric, sticky with drying blood. I work it up her body slowly, carefully, trying to minimize the strain on her wound. She raises her arms as much as she can, and I pull the shirt over her head.
Underneath, she's wearing a simple black undergarment. Functional, not decorative. Appropriate for battle. And yet the sight of her, the lean muscle, the pale skin, the scattered bruises already fading, makes something tighten in my chest.
The wound is worse than I thought.
The stake went deep, tearing through the muscle of her shoulder, scraping against bone. The edges are ragged, struggling to knit closed. Blood still seeps from the deepest part, welling up each time she moves.
"That bad?" she asks, watching my face.
I don't answer. Don't trust my voice.
Instead, I soak a cloth in antiseptic and begin to clean the wound. She hisses at the sting but doesn't pull away. Her hands grip the edge of the examination table, knuckles white.
"Sorry," I murmur.
"Don't be. Just do it."
I work methodically, carefully. The antiseptic clears away the dried blood and reveals the true extent of the damage. Deep, but clean. No fragments left behind, no signs of infection. It will heal. She will heal.
But the memory of watching her pinned beneath that vampire will take longer to fade. The stake driving into her shoulder. Her cry of pain. Knowing the next strike would find her heart if I didn't reach her in time.
"You're shaking," she says quietly.
