Wounds Novels & Stories

It does not take much time at all for the skin to close up and become smooth again. And this is especially true when the damage is done with regular weapons. If someone stabs a Furmond with a common kitchen knife, like the one Diane had used, the body fixes itself within an hour or two. It is only when you get hurt by special wolf-confiscated weapons that the injury stays open and bleeds for days, and leaves a scar. So, my wrist had healed because I am a Furmond. But I was not going to tell her that. No. I wasn't going to say a single word about my real identity to her.

"The wolf. Let her in." "If I let her in she'll heal the wound completely." "Then let her." I looked at his face and he was serious and his eyes were steady and I let the wolf come forward and the silver light poured out of my hands and into the wound and the infection burned away under the heat and the torn muscle knit together and the skin closed over the stitches and in ten seconds the wound was gone, nothing left but a pink scar where the blade had gone in. Dax looked down at his side and his hand touched the smooth new skin and he looked at me with an expression I'd never seen before.

Wolf stared. “You – home? Scars… you have weeks and weeks of treatment here before you can go anywhere.” “The fuck you say.” “No lie, man.” Wolf was mystified at how the seriousness of his condition had totally escaped Scars; maybe he wasn’t as mentally aware as Wolf had assumed? He broke the bad news as gently as he could now. “You need skin grafts on sixty percent of your back, and on about half the backs of your legs… the wounds are still open under all those bandages, and they’re still healin’.”

There was a sharp sting in my other arm. Keane worked quickly, voice low and steady as he spoke to Carleigh and the warriors around us. “Broken ribs, three, maybe four. Deep lacerations along the left flank and shoulder. Significant blood loss. Claw marks across the back are the worst. I’m packing them now and starting another bag of blood.”

I felt like an exhausted older woman dealing with an arrogant teenager. I walked inside my room and quickly changed into comfortable, normal clothes. I really did have to go. When werewolves fight each other, their claws and fangs leave special wounds that cannot heal on their own. Without a healer to use pack medicine, a werewolf will suffer from the open wound for days, just like a fragile human. A few minutes later, I was sitting on the wooden benches at the training ground. I watched Caius easily dodge and fight the huge Betas and Gammas in the dirt.

"Don Ricardo, you're falsely accusing Isabella. There's nothing wrong with her. The real problem lies with—" But before she could finish, Lucia suddenly—and deliberately—stumbled, crashing into me. I lost my balance, and my lower abdomen slammed straight into the edge of a curbside trash can. A shriek of pain escaped me. Startled, Sophia rushed to steady me, only to see blood flowing from between my legs. When he saw that I was hurt, Ricardo's face went pale. He moved to pick me up, but Lucia suddenly screamed. "Don Ricardo! My stomach hurts so much! Our baby… Will our baby be okay?"

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."

Then, with plenty of gauze and a gentle touch, I began to clean one wound at a time. Externally, all of her wounds were red and inflamed, a clear sign of cellulitis. But the wounds themselves. Everyone of them was green and stank. The deepest one was the worst. It made me upset that someone would have done this to her. This is going to scar her mentally and physically for the rest of her life. If she lives.

When we finished, I stood to clear the plates, but she reached for them first. “I’ve got it,” she said, rising. “You sure?” “Yeah.” She took the plates to the sink, her back to me as she washed them. I leaned against the counter, just watching. The way her hands moved in the water. The tendons in her wrists. Her quiet concentration. I wanted to tell her I was sorry again. But that word had lost meaning now. It wasn’t enough. So I didn’t say anything. I just stood there, in the kitchen with the woman I’d hurt and kissed and touched, and for tonight, that was enough.

He is right on my heels, still wearing his pink thong. This can't be real. "Hey, wait. I payed for two hours. You can't leave." He says grabbing my hand and pulling me back. The reflexes kick in and my fist immediately swings right at his face, landing a hard blow on his cheek. Pain shoots through my hand and I grab it. The weird man is on the floor, holding his scrunched up face. "What the fuck is wrong with you?!" He yells and I groan still holding my hand.