Free Wounded by Jasinda Wilder Page B

propped against the wall, panting and sweating. I think I have broken ribs. I hurt so bad I could cry, but I refuse to let myself.  
    She watches me, frowning, shakes her head and mutters something. Stubborn ass , I imagine she says. She sets the packet of foil on my stomach, which hurts from the effort of moving. I reach for it, but my arm is weak. I manage a few bites while she watches. She clearly wants to help, but doesn't. I'm glad. I refuse to be fed like a goddamn baby. It's exhausting and painful, but I manage to eat it all, and drink the water. I feel better.  
    She glances at me, then pulls the blanket off me. If I didn't know better, I'd think she was blushing. It's a ridiculous idea, though, given what she does for a living. She doesn't look at me as she gently peels at the tape around the bandage on my leg.  
    "Do it fast," I tell her. She looks at me quizzically. "Fast."  
    I show her, ripping the bandage off quickly. It hurts like a bitch, and I have to stifle a groan. She picks at the bandage on one of my shoulders, going slowly again.  
    "No, do it fast." I mime ripping quickly. She looks at me incredulously and says something. I shrug. "It's better to just get it over with."
    She peels slowly. I curse, put my hand on hers, and rip it away, hissing through my teeth. She jerks her hand away and scrambles backward, chattering angrily, jabbing her finger at me.  
    She doesn't like to be touched, I guess. I lift my hands up. "I'm sorry. I won't do it again."
    I put my hands on my lap, covering myself, fingers threaded. She moves toward me again and pulls the last bandage off, quickly this time. I nod and she shakes her head in disbelief.  
    Stupid ass , I imagine her saying again.
    She takes a roll of gauze and rips a long, ragged piece off. I frown, wanting to show her how to do it right. I glance at the foot of my blankets and see my clothes, some of my gear. My combat knife. I tap her shoulder, point at the knife. She shakes her head, but I point again. She gives it to me and scrambles away, leaving the gauze near me. I pick it up, eyes locked on hers, and cut a neat square, show it to her, then a second and third. I sheathe the knife and toss it out of reach.  
    She creeps back toward me like a skittish kitten, takes the gauze squares from me and gingerly places them on one of the wounds. There's an aged bottle of peroxide on the counter and I point at it. The wounds need to stay clean. She frowns at me, but gets the bottle and hands it to me. I dump a small amount on my wound, and my teeth almost crack from the strain of containing my scream of pain.  
    Fuck, it hurts.  
    She takes it from me and does the same to the rest of my wounds, and by the end I pass out from the pain. I come to, and she's clumsily taping the gauze on, loose and off-center.
    "No, no. Not like that," I say.
    She starts and drops the tape. I rip off the bandage she did and re-tape it, centered and tight. She watches carefully, and then does the same. Her fingers on my skin are gentle, careful, feather brushes. She looks to me and I nod.
    "Good job. Much better. Thanks. Chokran ."
    She responds, and I shrug. She points at me, says “ Chokran ,” and then points at herself and repeats what she'd said, which I understand to mean "You're welcome." I repeat it, and she corrects my pronunciation.  
    She touches my chest, and this time I lay back down, slowly moving to the floor, each inch agony. I lay panting, eyes squeezed shut against the pain. I open my eyes to see her watching me, her expression inscrutable.
    I examine her in the light of day. She's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. About my age, twenty-three or twenty-four, a narrow face with high cheekbones, small, delicate ears, full red lips framing a wide mouth. Her eyes are like chocolate, dark and liquid, watching me watch her. Her body is svelte. I remember that word from high school English class. Her waist is narrow, turning her slim hips into tantalizing