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“Do your acquaintances usually want to kill you?”
“It’s not completely unknown,” he said wryly. And then he saw my face.
“Let me go,” I told him dangerously.
“So you can slap me?”
“So I can get you a new bandage!” I’d slap him later.
Pritkin let go and I stalked off. We didn’t have a medicine cabinet in the suite; we had a medicine closet. I didn’t know what the guys were preparing for, but they could have stocked a small clinic out of there. Usually, I thought it was a big waste, since I was the only person around here who could benefit from that stuff, and if I needed that much I was a goner, anyway. Today, I was grateful for it.
I grabbed what I needed and went back to the living room, but it was empty. I found Pritkin in the lounge, seated at the card table. I guess he didn’t want to bleed all over the new sofa. The vamps had cleared out, leaving us alone except for a forest of plants and a guy eating chocolate in a corner.
“What are you still doing here?” I demanded.
The blond mage jumped slightly and looked up. “I—No one told me to leave.”
“Leave.” I slammed the medical supplies down on the table.
He scurried off.
I glared at Pritkin. “You swore you’d be all right!”
“And as you can see—”
“You lied!”
“I didn’t lie. I merely didn’t anticipate walking into a—What are y
ou doing?”
I’d knelt on the floor and now I was pushing his legs apart so I could fit between them. “I’m going to rebandage you. If you’re smart, you’ll sit there and let me.”
“I can do that my—” He stopped when my fingernails sank into his thighs.
“Open your legs and hold your shirt up,” I snapped. And to my surprise, he did.
The bandage came off easily since it hadn’t been put on right to begin with, and underneath was—
I sucked in a breath.
Pritkin started to say something, but stopped when I glared up at him, so angry I could barely see. “Don’t.”
He didn’t.
The thing about having superhuman healing abilities is that you’re seriously out of practice when you actually need to do some first aid on yourself. At least, I assumed that was why the bandage had merely been slapped into place, why the cleanup job underneath had been halfassed and why the line of black stitches holding an ugly red wound together might have been done by a farsighted three-year-old. Or maybe he was just trying to piss me off.
If so, it was working really well. I was so mad my hands were shaking, but I didn’t know if it was at him or at me for letting him go. Damn it, I’d known this was going to happen. He was Pritkin. He couldn’t walk across a freaking street without getting shot at, and I’d let him go into goddamn Faerie.
I must have been out of my mind.
“I suppose you had to sew yourself up?” I asked harshly, going into the kitchen to run some water into a bowl.
“It seemed . . . advisable.”
Yeah. If the alternative was spilling your guts everywhere.
I brought back the water and the hand soap. Marco had told me that hydrogen peroxide wasn’t a good idea in deep cuts. Apparently, it could cause bubbles to form in the bloodstream that would kill you a lot faster than whatever had caused the cut in the first place.
