Pride (Shifters #3)(21)

My father sat in a chair in one corner of the room, refusing to let anything impede his view of me while he called the tribunal at the main lodge to give them an update. Dr. Carver rushed to and from my room, getting everything set to sew me up. He removed the shade from the lamp to give him as much light as possible. Then he arranged an assortment of medical supplies—scissors, flosslike thread, and a couple of other scary-looking instruments—on a clean white towel on the nightstand.
I flinched as he set an empty syringe on the towel, followed by a small, rubber-topped glass bottle. “What’s that for?”
Dr. Carver smiled gently when he saw the fear in my face. I’m not big on needles. They always seem to precede me being taken somewhere I don’t want to go. “That’s for our new guest. I’m going to force his Shift with a mix of adrenaline, and some other drugs.”
“Oh.” That made sense. We couldn’t let the stray wake up in cat form, because he’d be dangerous, hard to control, and impossible to handcuff. And because we had no cage in which to confine him. On two legs, he could be properly bound, thus unable to slice and dice anyone else.
“The rest of those are for me, though. Right?”
“Um…yes.” Dr. Carver zipped his nylon bag and sat on the empty bed facing me. “Is this your most serious injury in the line of duty?”
I tried to shrug, but even that slight movement hurt my stomach. “It’s the first to nearly disembowel me.”
Carver laughed. “Well, if that’s what he was going for, he did a very poor job of it. Your guts would never fit through these tiny holes. You’re gonna be fine. Sore for a while, and possibly scarred, but completely fine.”
“Thanks,” I said, and the doctor nodded brightly, then picked up the needle and the small glass bottle on his way into the living room to deal with the stray. And oddly enough, that comforted me more than his verbal assurances. My injuries couldn’t be too bad if he was willing to deal with the other guy first.
But then again, I wasn’t a threat to anyone. The stray was.
On his way out the door, Dr. Carver passed Marc, who carried a kitchen chair to my bedside then dropped into it and cradled my hand in both of his. With Marc there to keep me company, my father left to call my mother with an update from the semiprivacy of his own room.
“The doc’s right, you know.” Marc squeezed my fingers.
“How do you know?”
He leaned back to give me an unimpeded view of his gorgeous, sculpted chest, marred only by the four long claw-mark scars that had brought him into our world, and into my life. Those old scars had an oddly fresh look now, smeared as they were by my blood. “If I survived this, you’ll survive that.”
I blushed and glanced away, ashamed of whining over a relatively minor injury. Hell, Jace had been shot three months earlier and had recovered just fine.“You’re right. I’m a wimp.”
“Nah. You looked pretty bad before the doc got you cleaned up. I saw all that blood, and at first I thought the bastard nearly ripped you in half.”
“I don’t think he meant to hurt me.”
Marc’s gaze flicked to my stomach, then back to my face. “What he meant to do doesn’t matter.”
“Don’t you think it should?” But I wasn’t thinking about the stray. I was thinking about myself, and the fact that I hadn’t meant to infect Andrew. And the possibility that Marc was right—whether or not I meant to wouldn’t matter in the end.
But instead of answering, he dropped his gaze to my bare stomach, and a grin tugged at one side of his mouth as I heard his pulse jump. “You know, you’re lucky he didn’t rip that thing right out.” He nodded at my navel ring, and I flushed to realize he was really looking at it for the first time.
Ethan had taken me to get it done less than a month earlier, and had spent the entire time flirting with the multipierced girl behind the glass counter, in spite of the fact that he had a long-term girlfriend, for the first time ever. Well, if three months could be considered long-term…
My brother had pronounced my new—and only—piercing “awesome.” But I hadn’t done it for him. I’d done it on a whim, when the display in the shop window reminded me that Marc had once said he found belly-button rings sexy.
I’d worn skimpy tops for a week, trying to get a response out of him, but he’d never even looked at my pierced navel. At least not that I’d seen. Evidently putting a single hole through my stomach wasn’t enough to get his attention.
Though four of them did the job nicely…
“Do you like it?” I asked, fully aware that my bloody gashes marred the view.
“Um, yeah. I do.” His voice went hoarse with yearning, and I smiled.
My eyes roamed Marc’s chest, taking liberties because I hadn’t been invited to look in quite a while. He was beautiful; I’d always thought so. Even when we were both children. Even now that he was covered in my blood.
No, wait, that’s not all mine. Marc had already been bloody when he and Jace found me in the woods, and now that his shirt was off, I saw why. His left biceps was scored by four brand-new claw marks, and I could tell by the scent of the wound that they hadn’t come from Jace. They’d run into another stray. No wonder it took them a while to find me.
But before I could ask him what happened, several thumps and a soft grunt drew my attention to the living room, where Lucas and Jace—who had Shifted back and re-dressed—were carrying a limp, naked male form. The stray. 
Dr. Carver’s magic needle had worked—further evidence that if given enough time, science could overcome nature entirely. Maybe someday it would be able to reverse werecat infection, giving strays back their human existence. But so far, the only hope available to strays was learning how best to play cards with the hands they’d been dealt. Marc coped very well. Andrew had not.
The last thing I saw from the living room before Dr. Carver stepped into my room and pulled the door shut was Lucas duct taping the stray’s wrists together while Jace worked on his ankles. Then Dr. Carver sat in the chair Marc vacated, and I exhaled slowly, mentally preparing myself for the stitches to come.
Marc held my hand while Dr. Carver gave me a local anesthetic to numb the site of the sutures. When I realized the local anesthetic involved a needle, I nearly crushed his fingers. After that, when the actual stitches began, he switched to stroking my hair, and sent Jace for the stress ball Michael had given me. By the time the doctor had me patched back together, that stupid squishy ball lay in tiny clumps of foam all over my comforter.
But that wasn’t what got me through the stitches, every one of which I felt as little painless-but-weird tugs in my flesh. Neither was it my father, who returned to pace at the end of my bed. What got me through was Marc, holding my attention with one old enforcer tale after another. Some were funny. Some were dumb. But all of them were better than listening to my father’s anxious pacing, or Dr. Carver mumbling to himself as he counted my stitches.
Once again, Marc had come through for me when I needed him, though I’d failed him time and again.
When my stomach was finally stitched up, and my father had both inspected and approved of his work, Dr. Carver covered my belly with several large pieces of gauze, which he held in place with thick white medical tape.
Marc pulled the blanket from the unoccupied bed and draped it over me. Then he slid one firm, warm hand behind my neck to help me hold my head up long enough to wash down the pills Dr. Carver brought me, with the accompanying glass of water.
“These will make you sleep for several hours,” Dr. Carver said as I gulped more water to rinse away the bitter aftertaste. Smart man. If he’d told me that before giving me the pills, I probably would have refused them. “You won’t need anything for pain while you’re out, but I have something good for you when you wake up.”
I was sure I would need it. The local was already wearing off, and just holding my head up made my stomach feel like flaming knives were being driven through it. I’d had no idea I used those particular muscles so often, but I made a mental note never to take them for granted again.
“I don’t want to leave you alone,” Dr. Carver said, looking at my father, even though he seemed to be speaking to me. “At least until we rule out internal bleeding. Let me know immediately if you feel dizzy or nauseated, or if there’s blood in your urine. And someone will need to watch you for swelling, tenderness, or bruising.”
My father nodded, but Marc was the first to speak. “I’ll stay with her.”
Daddy frowned, and looked as if he might argue for a moment. But then his face went carefully blank, and he simply nodded. “Fine. I’ll send someone to relieve you if the stray wakes up before she does.” Because Marc was in charge of interrogations. He was really good at convincing people to talk.
Apparently satisfied, Dr. Carver nodded at Marc, already moving toward the door. “I’ll be back to take care of your arm in a few minutes.”
My eyes were already getting heavy, probably as much from exhaustion and shock as from the pills, which couldn’t have kicked in so quickly. Either way, the very thought of being sucked into sleep against my will was starting to panic me. I hate being left out of things, and if the stray woke before I did, I wouldn’t even get to hear what he had to say, much less ask him my own questions. No fair.“Wait, I want to talk to him,” I insisted as my father bent over me, studying my eyes, as if to determine my awareness. “I want to ask him—”