Warriors of Poseidon 04 - Atlantis Unmasked

it in place.
     
    She gasped but didn‟t pull away from him. “Oh, you know. Medical journals, Shifter Monthly , Vampire Quarterly , all the usual.”
     
    He raised an eyebrow, sure that she was teasing him. Almost sure. Her strained smile gave nothing away, though. He gently wiped her side, trying to catch all of the bright red mixed blood and water that ran freely from the heated cloth. Then he threw that cloth away and warmed a second. “You hold this one in place,” he told her, putting her hands over the cloth. “I need to go do a quick patrol and make sure there aren‟t any more of them, and check on Donaldson and our prisoner.”
     
    “If they come, you yell for me,” she said fiercely. “This scratch won‟t stop me. Promise.”
     
    He looked her in the eyes and promised. Then he headed for the armory, so he could load up. He‟d feel a lot better with a sword in his hand and a couple of the humans‟
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    guns at the ready. Whatever resource it took to protect her, Atlantean or human, he would use. If there were more attackers coming, they would all die. But he‟d kill them all and die in the doing of it before he‟d ever call for Grace to help.
     
    He‟d never before felt such a complete lack of guilt at breaking a promise.

Chapter 16
    Grace waited until the sound of his footsteps had faded before she released the moan she‟d been holding in for what felt like hours. She gingerly scooted down and off the table, holding the wet towel to her side, afraid to actually look at the damage. She‟d managed to keep her eyes on Alexios the entire time he was cleaning her side, almost mesmerized by the combination of fury and concern in his expression. The ferocious warrior treating her with such care and gentleness that she‟d nearly cried from the tenderness of it.
     
    But now she needed to man up. Woman up? Whatever. It was time to be brave and look at the damage. She‟d been clawed before, but something about her heritage helped her to heal a little faster. A little better. So her skin remained relatively scar free.
    But this time the injury burned like somebody had taken a blowtorch to her side, and she had a feeling it was bad.
     
    At the sink, she ran the hot water again and finally pulled the cloth away from the wound, wincing a little when the edges of her skin tried to stick to the fabric. Oh, damn.
    It was bad. No, bad was an understatement.
     
    Just a scratch, she‟d told Michelle. But a scratch deep enough that his claws had hooked on her ribs, scraping bone, on their way down her right side. Jagged enough that the skin would never heal properly. She‟d have her first scar, all right.
     
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    And it was going to be a doozy. Great. Just when she finally had somebody she wanted to see her naked.
     
    She laughed at her oh-holy-bat-shit-inappropriate flash of vanity and the laugh came out shaky and oddly high-pitched. The sound of someone verging on hysterics. There was no way she‟d give in to that.
     
    Focus.
     
    She lifted her left arm to reach for the first-aid kit on the shelf, then fumbled with the catch and opened the lid. Maybe she didn‟t have to worry about rabies, but infection was always an issue. She pulled out a jumbo-sized box of Neosporin and opened it to get to the tube inside. Squeezing a hefty-sized dollop of the ointment onto her fingers, she took a deep breath and held it in her lungs, and then smoothed the ointment over the jagged but now clean edges of the wound.
     
    In spite of the chill air, sweat broke out on her face from the pain of even that gentle pressure, and the room went swirly for a minute. She grabbed the edge of the counter and hung on until the dizziness passed. Some commander. Trying to faint from a little scratch.
     
    She dropped the tube back in the first-aid kit and then washed her hands. Her sodden shirt was suddenly too clammy and nasty, and she couldn‟t bear to feel it touching her skin. She pulled the remains of it off her shoulders and arms and then wadded it up and threw it in the wastebasket with the used and bloody towels. For a moment, she stared, entranced at the sight. The vivid scarlet of the bloody cloth lay in stark relief against the white plastic garbage bag.
     
    Blood in the trash can. Her blood in the trash can. It seemed wrong. Blood was life, and life didn‟t belong in the garbage. Bodies didn‟t