Wounds Book Novels & Stories

Then he was gone, racing toward the battle with his sword raised. Wounded started arriving within minutes. A young female with her arm hanging at a wrong angle, whimpering as Thea set the bone. An older male with claw marks across his chest, blood pumping out too fast. A teenager who couldn't have been more than fifteen with half his face burned from something I didn't want to imagine.

In three quick strides, she crossed the room and found herself in his arms, her face pressed against his chest where she could hear the steady rhythm of his heart. "I thought I'd lost you," she whispered against the expensive fabric of his shirt, now torn and bloodstained. Alex's arms tightened around her, one hand cradling the back of her head with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the dangerous world outside. "They'll have to try harder than that," he murmured into her hair. When she finally pulled back to examine his wound, her fingers brushed against his skin with professional efficiency that belied the electricity of her touch. "This needs proper medical attention."

With my fingers, I slowly gathered every shard of the broken opal into a velvet pouch, not even leaving the tiniest speck of powder behind. Once they were all collected, I clutched the pouch tightly against my chest. "Andiamo, Mamma. We're never coming back to this place again."

Due to the effort, the gunshot wounds began to bleed again. Liam ran behind the bar and returned with a blanket. As soon as the wetsuit was off, the men began to look anywhere but at my body, at the thick, intertwined scars separated by fine patterns. Clive took the blanket from Liam and wrapped me in it before picking me up and taking me to the bookstore. It was awkward to be carried in their arms like a child, but at the same time warm and cozy. Both wounds were on the same side of my body, so at least when they laid me on the couch I was able to cover most of my body with the blanket and not move.

She needed strength right now, not pity. I applied ointment to the wounds, gently checking the progress of the healing. Some of the sores were starting to close, but others... others were still raw, inflamed with the evidence of the violence she had endured. I worked quickly, trying not to prolong the moment any longer than necessary. After reapplying fresh bandages, I disposed of the used ones and made sure to wash my hands thoroughly.

Bandages, clean cloth, a small bottle of antiseptic—I grabbed everything I could. Carefully, I started cleaning his wounds, wrapping the worst of them with strips of cloth. His breathing was shallow, each rasping inhale a struggle. I paused, my brow furrowing as I examined his injuries. The cuts were jagged, deep, as if caused by claws or teeth, not anything a normal human could survive. My stomach churned. Wild animals? Maybe... but some of these look too precise, too violent... He tried to respond, a small sound escaping his lips, and I gripped his hand, letting him know I was there.

I flinched as I felt his warm fingers on my skin. "Are you going to let me do this or what?" He stretched my legs on his, cleaning the wounds and removing every piece of glass that pierced into my skin. I wasn't supposed to let him do that but I had no choice since he was going gently with me. "You are lucky this is a flesh wound. There is no permanent damage to the bone but it would have been infected by now." I stared at him as he focused on the wound. There was no gentle medication that might help with dressing my injury, so he grabbed the bottle of alcohol on the table.

He would never be the same. I read over an array of salves, of healing ointments and cosmetic fixes, but nothing about repairing bone or life. It was all surface layer healing. In my witch books, there were no solutions to bringing someone back to life besides sacrificing your own self. I found nothing useful, not even aid for a head wound. By the time there was a stacked pile upon the table, I realized I never found the book I was waiting to discover in the section. I got up to look for it, but it was clearly missing.

Pressing against the worst wound—the gash across her ribs that won't stop bleeding. This time, when I reach for my magic, it comes. No hesitation. No wall. No fear blocking the way. Warmth floods from my palms into her torn flesh, and I watch—actually watch—as the edges of the wound begin to pull together. Slowly at first, then faster. Skin knitting over muscle, blood flow slowing, stopping. I move to the next wound. The swelling around her eye recedes under my touch. The split lip heals. Deep scratches across her arms fade to nothing.

Liam had escaped, but he was wounded and alone in a world that was now his enemy. The wound on Liam's arm was a gruesome sight. The jagged edges of the blade had torn through his flesh, leaving a gaping gash that oozed crimson blood. The injury was deep, almost to the bone, and the blood flowed freely from the wound, forming a crimson pool on the cold, stone floor.