Starfall (Starflight #2)(47)
But so were her soldiers.
Jordan refocused her attention with a gentle touch. “Let’s get the men inside. The cargo hold can double as an infirmary. It’s not the cleanest room on the ship, but it’ll do.”
“All right.”
“And at some point, we need to talk about him.” Jordan didn’t look at her, instead fixing his gaze on a shard of metal on the ground.
She could tell he meant Kane.
“There’s something you should know,” he continued, and when he peeked up at her, his eyes seemed heavy, as if he understood the news would be hard to take. “Something I just learned, otherwise I would’ve told you sooner.”
“What is it?”
“Later. First we’ll see to the injured.”
She nodded because he was right. The longer wounds were left untreated, the greater chance of infection setting in. Whatever he had to tell her could wait.
She helped haul the critically wounded on board using impromptu stretchers made from blankets. The ship stocked an impressive medical supply, even plasma and synthetic skin, which she put to use on two patients who’d suffered blood loss and extreme burns. Once the first group was stabilized, she began setting broken bones and administering Marrow Bond to accelerate the healing process. Finally she treated the minor wounds such as abrasions and light burns. She’d just set down her last tube of suture gel when she realized there was still a patient she hadn’t seen—the general.
She peered around the cargo hold for him while stretching her lower back. She didn’t know how many hours had passed, but the beam of sunlight shining through the open hatch had shifted to the opposite end of the room. She didn’t spot Jordan in the cargo bay, and come to think of it, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him. After grabbing a med-kit, she wound her way through the maze of soldiers sleeping on the floor and continued to the corridor leading to the main part of the ship.
She eventually found him in the pilothouse, poring over transmission data. He didn’t hear her approaching, so she stood in the doorway and watched him rub his eyes with one hand while bracing himself on the equipment with the other. His face seemed pale beneath the overhead lighting, pale enough to make her suspect he’d hidden an injury from her. Now that she paid attention, she noticed that unlike his pants, his jacket was clean and unburned.
He’d changed it.
“Where’s your other coat?” she asked, causing him to flinch. “The one you were wearing earlier?”
He held a hand over his heart. Even startled, his skin didn’t fill with color the way it should. “It was dirty, so I pitched it.”
He was lying. Guys like him didn’t mind grit on their clothes. She strode to the pilot’s chair and swiveled it around to face the open portion of the bridge. “Sit down.” When his boots failed to move, she added, “That’s an order from your queen.”
His lips slid into a sideways grin. Once he sat down and leaned against the seatback, she moved in front of him and began unfastening his jacket. As her fingers moved, she found her cheeks prickling with heat. She had imagined the general shirtless a time or two—a girl would have to be dead not to wonder what he looked like under his snug-fitting fatigues—but in her daydreams he’d never been this close. The body heat radiating from his clothes and the sound of his deep, steady breathing made this a more intense experience than she’d bargained for. It was all she could do to keep her hands steady as she opened his jacket and pushed it over his shoulders.
Then she saw why he’d changed his coat.
“You should’ve come to me,” she said, cringing at the dried blood that caked his T-shirt. He’d probably been cut by flying debris. Gently, she peeled the crusted fabric away from his skin and then tore his shirt in half to expose a six-inch gash on his lower belly.
Jordan sucked a painful breath through his teeth.
“You need sutures,” she told him. “But first I have to clean you up. Sit tight while I find a sponge. And undo your trousers.” She glanced down as her face warmed again. “It looks like that cut extends beneath your waistband.”
She left the pilothouse and returned with a clean cloth and a bowl of warm water. Still seated, Jordan lowered his pants to midthigh and rolled down the waistband of his boxer briefs, exposing a set of V-shaped hip flexor muscles that were bound to make an appearance in her dreams tonight. She handed him the bowl and forced herself to study the contents of her med-kit instead of watching him sponge his bare torso.
When he was done, she knelt on the floor between his legs, but then quickly changed into a crouch. She’d vowed never to kneel before any man again after Marius, and she meant to keep that promise. She didn’t talk as she sprayed antiseptic over the scrapes on Jordan’s chest. When the time came to clean his deeper wound, she peeked up at him.
“Ready?”
Nodding, he gripped the chair’s armrest. His grasp tightened as she sprayed the length of his gash, but he didn’t make a sound.
“Now for the fun part,” she said, holding up the suture gel. “This is going to burn like hellfire.”
“And you wondered why I didn’t come to you.”
She carefully pinched his wound closed. Then, one slow inch at a time, she spread the gel in place and cringed in sympathy as its chemicals bubbled and sizzled over his flesh. He clenched his teeth and grunted. The pain wouldn’t last long, but she knew from experience it was intense.