He dumps the small bag he took from the wardrobe on the bathroom counter and pulls his blood-soaked shirt off, throwing it in the bin. He then washes his hands and dries them before looking down to inspect the wound I can’t take my eyes off. A knife wound if I’m not mistaken. The scariest looking wound I’ve ever seen. Without answering my question, he says, “Wash your hands.”
Dragging my eyes from his stomach, I do as he says. “You had to sew yourself up in Afghanistan?” How did I not know this?
“Birdie,” he starts, his tone snappy, a mixture of impatience and irritability, “can we just get this done and then talk?”
I finish washing my hands. “Okay, what do you need me to do?” I sound a whole lot more confident than I feel. My tummy is already squeamish. But at least I’ve now seen the wound and know that although Winter’s shirt was soaked in blood, there’s actually not that much still coming from the gash.
He nods at the bag on the counter. “There are alcohol wipes in the kit. I need you to sterilise everything in there while I clean out the wound.”
I try to shift my focus from the fear swarming through me and instead focus on what I’m doing. The job Winter has given me is easy enough. My concern is he’s going to ask me to stick a needle through his flesh or something equally horrifying. However, I love this man with everything in me, and so I know that if the next words out of his mouth have anything to do with sewing his flesh together, that’s what I’ll be doing.
I finish sterilising the tools from the bag and watch as Winter cleans his wound. I’m surprised I can watch. I usually struggle with blood.
When he’s done cleaning it, he reaches for what looks like scissors to me, but they aren’t scissors because they don’t have blades. They kinda look like tiny little pliers. He also grabs what I’m guessing is the needle even though it looks more like a fishing hook. I only know it’s the needle because it has surgical thread attached to it. He takes the little plier things and uses them to hold the end of the needle before reaching for another tool in his kit, which looks like tweezers.
Using the tweezer-looking tool, he exposes one side of the wound and pushes the needle through his skin. I watch in fascination as he does this and then twists his hand so it starts coming up on the other side of the wound. Working with skill I never knew he had, he manoeuvres the tools to create his first stitch, bringing his skin together as he ties a knot in the thread.
Repeating the knot three times, he then glances up at me and says, “Can you pass me the scissors?”
I hand them over and he cuts the thread. Moving about a quarter of an inch down the wound, he does this all over again, creating another stitch, and then repeats this until the wound is sewn up. Lastly, he wraps it with a bandage. All of this, he does without barely a mention of the pain he must be feeling. He grunts a few times throughout, but that’s it. I would have passed out by now if I was the one being stitched without anaesthetic. I’m surprised he hasn’t guzzled some whisky.
I remain silent while he cleans up even though I have a million questions I want to ask. Knowing I’m going to struggle not to blurt them all out, I decide to take his bloody shirt out to the rubbish. However, as I reach for it, he curls his hand around my arm and stops me. “I’ll do it.”
I meet his gaze. “I need to do something, Winter, or else I’m going to go crazy waiting for you to talk.” Crazier than I already am. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt fear this strong. My husband was stabbed tonight. Stabbed! I knew this kind of thing was possible with him being a club member, but holy hell, the reality is more frightening than I ever imagined. He may be standing in front of me all stitched up, but all I can wonder is how close is the danger? Will the person who stabbed him hurt him again? Will he survive a second attempt?
Oh God.
My knees go weak.
Birdie, stay strong. Winter doesn’t need to add worrying about you to his list of shit to deal with tonight.
He shoves his fingers through his hair, his face revealing his torment. “Fuck, angel, I’m sorry I had to bring this shit home. And I’m sorry I fucked up our plans for tonight.”
Deep breath, Birdie. “What happened?”
“Ransom and I got into it with some guys on our way home, but I don’t want you worrying. We handled the situation.”
I know that’s all he’ll give me because after living with him in Melbourne for these last nine months, he never gives me much more than that when something goes down. And things have gone down a few times. Winter warned me before I moved that things weren’t good here and he was right. And as much as he tells me not to worry, I do. However, I keep most of that worry on the inside like I’m going to do tonight.
“Will you be okay until you see the doctor tomorrow?”
He nods. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”
I wish he’d go to the hospital, but I know his mind is made up and to try to force him will only end in us arguing. “What about infection?”
“You sterilised everything. I cleaned the wound. It’ll be good until Doc can check it out. Don’t worry about me, Birdie. I’ve survived worse shit than this.”
“How many times have you had to stitch yourself up?”
He brings his hand up and smooths my hair off my face. His touch is gentle. Loving. “That’s all in the past, angel. I’d rather talk about you. Did you give yourself the injection?”
Winter always refuses to talk about his military days. I don’t blame him, so I let it go. Maybe one day he’ll share that part of his past with me. “I did.”
“All went okay?”
“Yes. I was almost as brave as you were stitching yourself up. Actually, no, I was braver.”
His face breaks out in a smile and I’m glad I could lighten the mood. “Yeah, I bet you were.”
“I feel so brave that at this point, I’m pretty sure I can do the shot by myself every night if I have to.” I’m still trying to lighten the mood, but there is some truth to my statement. Now that I’ve done it once, I’ve broken the fear barrier and I really do think I’d be okay on my own.
“Baby,” he says, pulling me close, “tonight was fucked up, but I’m hopeful I won’t get caught out again. I’m doing my damnedest to be home for this every night.”
I try to keep my body from pressing against his wound as I say, “I know you are, but I want you to know that if stuff comes up that you need to deal with, I’m good now. I’ve got this.”
“Fuck, Birdie, I don’t want you to do this on your own.” He tightens his hold on me. “And stop pulling away. I want you close.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You’re not going to hurt me.” His tone has turned a little impatient, which tells me he’s feeling some stress. Winter is the most patient man I know and only gets like this when things feel out of control for him.
Against my better judgement, I give him what he wants; I move into him and put my arms around him. Looking up into his eyes, I smile. “Something happened to me tonight after I gave myself that injection.”
“Tell me.”
“I don’t feel so wound up about everything anymore. I feel calm now and believe we’re going to make a baby.”