Darkest Sins (Perfectly Imperfect #9)

“You need to remove the bullet first, cub.”

My head snaps in his direction, and I gape at him in horror.What?There’s no way I’m digging into his flesh to take outa bullet. I just thought I’d bandage him up to help stop the bleeding.

A small smile lifts the corners of his lips. He seems to find the situation amusing. My pulse skyrockets while I peer at the two silver orbs that have captured my gaze. I can’t help but wonder what secrets are hidden in their depths. Something about those pale irises makes me feel as if I’m staring death right in the eye, but the wild thumping of my heart is not because of fear.

I’m well aware that it’s the middle of the night, and I’m all alone with a stranger—a man who’s more than twice my size, and who, even wounded, can easily snap my neck. But no, my frantic heartbeat has nothing to do with fear.

More strands of hair have slipped out of his braid, the dark tendrils framing his handsome face. In full light now, I can see it’s not as perfect as it seemed. There is a scar on his forehead and another on his left cheekbone, but they don’t distract from his looks.

“The bullet is close to the surface.” He reaches for the forceps on the cart and places them in my hand. “You’ll manage just fine.”

I squeeze the instrument and look down at the hole in his side. “We only have animal anesthetic here.”

“I don’t like drugs. We’ll go without,” he says and lies down on the table.

“No anesthetic. Sure.” I swallow. Dear God, he’s nuts.

Trying my best not to freak out completely, I start cleaning the skin around the bullet wound. The only thing I see is blood, but somehow, I will my hand not to shake as I bring the forceps closer to the injury.

“It’s half an inch or so in,” he says. “You should be able to feel it right away.”

Don’t faint. Don’t faint.Bile rises up my throat as I place the tip of the forceps inside the wound. I’ve watched animals being treated numerous times, including some pretty nasty lacerations, but I have never witnessed anyone taking out a bullet. The urge to shut my eyes, to block out the images of blood and torn flesh, is overwhelming. I grit my teeth to overcome it.

Strong fingers wrap around my wrist, moving my hand slightly to the left. The force behind his hold is nonexistent, as if he’s afraid of hurting me.

“There.” I hear him, but I don’t dare to look away from the wound. “Can you feel it?”

I nod.

“Good. Now, take it out.”

I hold my breath and squeeze the small object with the forceps. The stranger’s body tenses but he doesn’t let out a sound. Cold sweat breaks across my forehead as I slowly pull the bullet out. Instantly, blood starts seeping from the hole in the flesh. I toss the forceps and the bullet onto the cart and grab a huck towel, pressing it over the wound.

“Now what?” I choke out.

“Clean the blood first. Next, apply a dressing—maybe add a few—and cover it with a bandage. Then, use the tape to secure everything.”

I follow his instructions and, when I have the bandage on his hip secured, I grab the edge of the table and try to bring my erratic breathing under control. There’s blood all over my hands and arms, halfway to my elbows.

“Now, the leg,” he grunts as he pulls himself into a sitting position. “Do you have elastic bandages?”

Nodding, I take off the bloody gloves and reach inside the drawer to pull out two packs. My fingers are shaking, and I barely register my own movements as I place the packages in his outstretched hand. The skin on his palm is rough, and a thick raised scar splits it diagonally.

“Cub.”

My gaze jumps from his hand to his eyes. They are watching me intently. There’s a light touch on my right wrist as his fingers circle it, just as they had done a few minutes ago. He raises my hand and presses his lips to the tips of my fingers. And I suddenly forget how to breathe.

“You did good.” His husky voice washes over me, almost like a caress, while he releases my hand.

Stunned, I just stand there as he tears off the casing around the roll and starts wrapping the bandage around his thigh. He doesn’t even flinch. My panic starts to subside, so I’m finally able to process the sight of him in all his beautiful male glory.

I let my eyes wander over his huge naked chest, every muscle of which is so perfectly outlined that he’d make a phenomenal subject for studying anatomy. What? Yeah, “studying,” that’s exactly what I’m thinking as I watch the way his biceps flex while he works on wrapping his leg. Those things might be thicker than both my thighs together. Heat spreads across my cheeks as I ogle him without an ounce of shame.

Similar to his face, there are small imperfections on his upper body. A five-inch line of raised flesh on his left forearm. An old knife wound, probably. There are also several small scars on his stomach and chest, but I’m not sure what could havecaused them. The round mark on his shoulder near the right collarbone, however, is most definitely from a bullet.

When he’s done, he slides off the table, and again, I need to tilt my head up to be able to meet his stare.

“Next time you stumble upon a man with a gunshot wound, you either run or you kill him.” He leans in until his face is mere inches from mine, and one of the loose dark strands of hair brushes my cheek. “You got that, tiger cub?”