Page 170 of Feralheart

“I assumed as much,” he grated out. “Make it quick.”

“Have you had a knife removed from your flesh before?”

“This is a first for me.”

“My first for removing one.”

“I trust you,” he said.

“Even though I just said I’ve never done this before?”

“Yes,” he said through clenched teeth.

“I do know some general things. We’ll have to take care pulling it out because the pressure of the blade in your arm could be keeping something vital inside from bleeding. Removing it could cause a lot of blood loss.”

“Are you suggesting I spend the rest of my life with it sticking out of my shoulder?”

I swallowed hard. “Um…no.”

His lips quirked up before smoothing. “Good. Just do it.”

“I need supplies.” I raced for the tent entrance. “Don’t move.”

I flew from his tent, my bare feet slapping wet grass. Elite riders clustered nearby but none tried to stop me. I grabbed the medical supplies he’d sent from my pack and ran back, securing the tent flap behind me.

When I turned, he was watching me.

The coppery smell of blood filled the space.

Selira sent concern through the bond. I sent reassurance back.

I lowered my bag onto the bed beside him and opened it, pulling out a thick bandage, placing it on his uninjured chest. His naked chest. I tried not to look but…

The dream swirled through me, reminding me of how close we’d gotten to being fully together, even if it hadn’t been real.

Our gazes met, and I swore he saw. He knew. Had he shared the dream too?

I didn’t dare ask.

I forced my eyes back to the wound.

“Alright,” I said, struggling to sound practical. “I’m going to do it fast. Brace yourself.”

I wrapped my hand around the hilt, taking care not to jar it, and placed my other hand on a smooth section of his shoulder.

“Do you want me to count?” I asked.

“Count?”

“I do that a lot. Count, that is. It…settles me.”

“If counting settles you, then you should do it but⁠—”

I pulled the blade out as smoothly as I could and pressed the bandage over the entry point.

Blood. More than I’d like.

My stomach turned over. I breathed through it the way my mother had taught me. Slow. Steady. The wound doesn’t care.