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She eats in silence, chewing and swallowing, accepting each new bite of food I feed her. It’s intimate and caring, and for the first time since she was taken from us in Mexico, a warmth spreads through me, banishing the cold, empty feeling in my chest. I like being able to take care of her like this.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” Willow asks after a bit. “From the bullet wound, I mean. You went down so hard, and I thought—”
She shakes her head, obviously not wanting to finish that sentence.
“I’m fine. It missed anything important, so it was just some pain and some blood. I’ve had worse.”
“You guys always say that,” she mutters.
I shrug a shoulder. “It’s true. Grim as it is. But the truth is, I’m fine. I promise. The worst part of it was getting stitches in a moving vehicle.”
She makes a face, exhaling a puff of air that’s almost a laugh. “I can’t believe you did that.”
“I had more important things on my mind. We had to get moving so we could get to you.”
I don’t want her to feel guilty when I say that, or to blame herself, but it’s true. The most important thing in that moment was getting to Willow, and I didn’t care about how uneven the stitches would be or how unsanitary the back of that car was. It bothers me a bit, now that we have her back and I can actually focus on anything besides the search for her, but it’s manageable. It’s the kind of thing that the old version of me probably couldn’t have ever gotten past, but the new version of me has different priorities.
It was painful and terrifying becoming this version of myself, letting the beautiful woman in front of me get under my skin and change me. But I like who I am now so much more.
“Can I… can I see it?” Willow looks almost nervous to be asking, like she expects me to say no, but I could never deny her anything. So I take my shirt off, letting her see the bandaged wound on my side.
Anguish crosses her face, and she brushes her fingertips near it.
Goosebumps erupt in the wake of her touch, and I tense, my body reacting to her the way it always does—full-force, an instant response.
It’s almost overwhelming, having her touch me again after what feels like so long without it. I’ve gotten used to her touch, more comfortable with it than I ever was before, but there’s still an element of sensory overload to it.
I don’t know if it’s because of how much I feel for her or if it’s just because I’m still getting used to casual touches, but it’s like every nerve in my body is attuned to her touch.
To distract myself, I focus on her. I look her over, noticing the shadows under her eyes, the way she seems worn down and thinner than she was the last time I saw her. Just a bit of her blonde roots are starting to show beneath the dark color she dyed her hair, barely noticeable, but present. She has bruises on her skin, and there’s also a graze on her shoulder where the collar of the shirt she’s wearing slips down. It looks fresh and painful, probably something she got in the last day or two—maybe even last night.
“You’re hurt,” I murmur, nodding at it.
She looks and grimaces, swallowing hard. I don’t ask her how she got it. I can picture it pretty well.
“It’s fine,” she says. “Ransom got a chance to look me over in the shower last night. I don’t have any injuries that are too bad. Nothing as bad as what you have, by a long shot. It’s raw, and it hurts a bit, but it should heal up okay.”
She’s right. It should heal up okay, butokayisn’t good enough when it comes to my butterfly. I hate that she’s hurting at all, and I want to do everything I can to help her heal up faster, and to heal well.
Without another word, I get up and go to the first aid kit we assembled out of stolen products from the vet’s office in Mexico. I grab some antibiotic ointment before striding back over to her. It’s second nature to dab some of the medicinal smelling ointment onto my fingers and reach out to her, but I pause before I touch her, waiting.
“May I?”
Willow bites her lip and then nods.
I dip my chin in acknowledgment and then start smoothing the ointment over her skin. She tenses up, just like I did when she touched me a moment ago. My fingers go still on her shoulder, and I can feel her practically vibrating beneath them.
“Are you alright?”
“Yes.” She exhales a shaky breath, and some of the tension bleeds out of her, but not enough.
I hesitate for another moment, not moving at all until she relaxes a bit more. Then I finish putting the ointment on her and replace the cap on the little tube.
“I hate this.” Willow sighs, drawing my attention back up to her immediately. “I hate how I don’t feel like myself anymore.”
Her words strike a chord with me. I know exactly how she feels, even though I wish I didn’t. I can vividly remember having that thought almost verbatim after one of my father’s worst ‘training’ sessions. My fingers tap against my thigh as I work to shove down my own demons, determined to battle them back so that I can help the sweet, perfect woman before me conquer her own.
“You’re still you,” I assure her, my voice low. “It might be a new version of you, and things might never be quite the same as they were before, but you’re still Willow. Still beautiful, still so strong. Still my butterfly. Still the most amazing woman I know.”
