Page 69 of SEAL of Valor

Reaching into the kit, I frantically search for something to numb him. But there’s nothing. “I can’t find anything to numb you,” I cry.

“It’s okay,” he says. “Not the first time I’ve been stitched up in the field.”

I look over at him, my eyes full of tears.

“It’s okay, Reese,” he assures me.

Swallowing hard, I nod, then reach into the bag and pull out a bottle of iodine, a pair of forceps, a needle, and some thread. I squeeze the iodine into the bullet hole, then sanitize the forceps.

Just like the time I removed the buckshot from that hunting dog last year. He survived. I can do this.

I take a deep breath, then lean closer to inspect his injury. Using the forceps, I do my best to limit my movements in finding the bullet. Weston groans, and his body is slick with sweat, but he remains perfectly still despite the agony I know he must feel. All while I play a twisted game of real-life operation.

Finally, the end of the forceps connects with the bullet, and moving as quickly and as carefully as I can, I back the forceps out of his injury—the bullet wedged at the end.

Blood pours from the wound as I sterilize it again, then thread the needle. I push it through his torn flesh and bring the pieces back together. Minutes tick by, but they might as well be hours.

Sweat beads on my forehead, but I ignore it and focus only on stopping the bleeding. With every moment that passes, Weston grows paler. Hang in there, please.

When the first injury is done, I start on the other two. Thankfully, they’re much smaller and far easier to close. Still, the amount of blood he’s lost—will he even survive? As soon as all three of the riskier injuries are cleaned and closed, I apply large bandages to them and grab another clean cloth. After dipping it into the water, I move in closer to his face and wipe the blood from his skin.

My hands are steady now, but my eyes fill with tears with every new cut and bruise I reveal on his handsome face.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper to him.

“This isn’t your fault, Reese.”

“Max and Ash⁠—”

He grips my arm again, his thumb stroking the tender flesh on the inside of my wrist. “Stop blaming yourself, Reese. Brenda is after me; you got caught up. You couldn’t have known.”

The lump in my throat makes it feel impossible to breathe. “I’m scared, Weston.”

He releases my wrist to reach up and gently stroke my face. “I won’t let them hurt you.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about.”

“I’ll be fine. Just a little battered.” He tries to laugh, but it comes out like a wheeze. “Give me a fair fight, and I’d have redecorated with him.”

“Weston.” A tear slips from my eye, and I raise my arm to wipe it away with the sleeve of my jacket. It’s then that I fully notice the amount of blood on my hands and arms. I pull away from him and turn toward the bucket to use the blood-stained water to clean my arms off as best I can. When that doesn’t fully work, I slip out of my jacket and use it to dry my arms.

Then, I return to Weston’s side. “Can you move at all?”

“Yeah.” He groans as he sits up and lets me help him to his feet.

“I just want to move you over here where it’s dry.” I lead him over to the other side of the room, then help him sit. I ball up my damp jacket and guide him to lie down on the ground so I can place it beneath his head.

With him settled, I rush over toward the bag again and search inside for anything I can use as a weapon. After grabbing a needle, I weave it through the thick waist of my dress, hiding it in the blood-stained lace. Then I take the scissors I’d used to cut the thread and bandages, and rush over to hide them under the jacket beneath Weston’s head.

Then I return to the first-aid kit and shove everything inside. I’ve just finished packing the rest of the supplies away when the door opens and Max comes in with the two men who brought in the bucket. He has his gun trained on me. “Hands up, Reese. Any funny business and I’ll put a bullet in your boy.” He shifts his aim toward Weston, who growls in response.

I slowly back over toward Weston, then take a seat at his side, before putting my hands back up.

“Atta girl,” Max utters.

Once the bucket and supplies are gone, he backs out, and the door locks behind him.

I kneel at Weston’s side. “Can you sit up for just a second?”