Page 34 of Starfighter’s Salvation

“Sit down” I ordered.

“It is nothing.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“The suit is damaged.”

“Because there’s a hole in the person wearing it. Sit.”

He looked at the launch clock. I used my charge-nurse voice. “Corvan. Come with me before I sedate you in front of everyone on this flight deck, haul your ass to medical and fly the mission with Dekker.”

He took a step toward our ship, and I noticed the growing and intense silence around us. When I looked around, I discovered every person in the loading area was watching us like we were the half-time entertainment.

“What are you all looking at?” I asked the watching deck crew. "Don't you have better things to do?"

One of them shook his head quickly. “Apologies, Starfighter.”

“Good." I waved my hand at the wreckage that could have killed me. "Get that rig secured and find out why it failed.”

They moved. Corvan watched me. “Command comes naturally to you.”

“Well, somebody had to do it. The pilot was busy pretending he didn’t have a back wound.”

I led him up the ramp and got him onto the med table inside our ship. He sat on the table and helped him out of the top half of his flight suit. Then I forgot what I was doing. I'd seen Corvan in a tight black uniform many times, both in the game and since our arrival. I'd never seen his bare skin, or the heavy muscles across his shoulders, the old scars along his ribs, or the narrow line of dark hair disappearing beneath his waistband.

Sweet fucking mercy. Over a decade as a trauma nurse meant I had seen thousands of bare chests. Bodies were bodies. Skin, muscle, blood, bone. A problem to solve. Corvan’s body was definitely a problem, just not the kind I was used to. My gaze lingered on the hard lines of his abdomen, then snapped back to his wound with heroic effort. It wasn't serious, but that was no excuse to be gawking instead of tending to him.

“How bad is it?” he asked.

I forced my eyes to the injury. Four-centimeter gash over the ribs. Deep but neat. Visible bruising. Not deep enough to cause damage to the lung. “You're bruised and you need stiches.”

“Then do it.”

“Bossy.”

“We launch in a matter of hours. And you will not fly with Dekker."

Had no desire to, but he didn't need to know that. Not until I was naked in his arms and he was officially mine. “Hold still.” The suture wand sealed the deepest layer. He didn't even flinch. “I'm sorry. Does that hurt?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“The pain is not significant.”

“Pain is a vital sign.”

“My vitals are acceptable. Normally, I would be doing this myself.”

“Not on my watch, big guy.”

His mouth moved. Almost a smile. I used the suture wand and worked my way up through the layers from deeper muscle to skin. My left hand stayed flat against his body to anchor the tissue in place as I worked. His heart beat hard beneath his ribs, a heavy, insistent knock against my palm. That pulse beat too hard for a man sitting still. Was it because he was in pain?

Then what was my excuse? Because mine wasn’t doing any better.

“When was the last time someone else patched you up?” I asked.

He went quiet. I looked up into a dark gaze I couldn't read.