Chapter 15: The Wound
The walls were cracked, plaster peeling and yellowed with age. Evac was too far out; they'd have to hunker down. Overhead, lights flickered, shadows trembling across the broken floor. Blood—Price's blood—clung in thick, drying smears to his gear, staining his shirt a deep, spreading red.
He slumped into a splintered wooden chair, breath hitching through gritted teeth. His tac vest was soaked, dark red blooming through the fabric and sticking to his ribs. The wound was deep. Ugly. But he barely felt it.
Because his eyes never left her.
Crowley stood only a few feet away, jacket stained, dirt streaked down her temple, a scrape on her arm already turning dark. Her chest rose and fell with the weight of the day. Her hands shook as she opened the med kit.
Even now, even with blood on his hands and heat dragging him under, he could see it—the fear and anger in her face. Like she was cursing him in her mind, scared he was hurt and furious because they both knew that bullet had been meant for her.
He'd take a hundred bullets if it meant she stayed that way—alive, fierce, cursing his name.
Pain seared through him as he peeled off the vest and let it drop to the floor with a wet thud. Blood streaked his fingers, soaking into his waistband, pooling in the crease of his thigh. His breathing was shallow, rattling.
"You're losing too much blood—"
"Then patch me up."
Crow moved toward him, slow but sure, and dropped to her knees between his legs. She reached for the hem of his shirt, pressing down hard over the wound, helping him hold pressure. Her other hand tangled in the side of his shirt, steadying herself—and him.
He closed his eyes. Just for a second.
Worth it, he thought again. Even if this was the last mission he ever walked. If it meant she lived. If it meant she looked at him like that—like he mattered.
"Hold still, Captain," she said, her voice thin, strained. "You're bleeding through—"
"Don't call me that right now." It came out harsher than he meant—low, cracked. He hated the formality, the distance. Hated that she was keeping that professional wall between them when what he needed was her.
He caught her wrist. Not rough. Not controlling. Anchoring.
His thumb slid across the ridge of her pulse, tracing warmth over blood.
"I took that hit for you," he said, his voice cracking with the weight of it.
"I know," she whispered. "I didn't ask—"
"No. You didn't." He leaned in—closer, until his breath brushed her cheek, blood smearing onto her skin as his lips barely grazed her jaw. "But I'll ask you this—" He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. His gaze wasn't sharp anymore. It was raw. "Where the fuck would I be if you died, hmm?"
His side throbbed, but he didn't flinch. He leaned forward until their foreheads met—blood and sweat and breath mingling in the space between.
"You think I'm bleeding out over some noble sense of duty?" he rasped. "No, love. I'm bleeding because I couldn't let you fall."
His other hand moved to the back of her neck, warm and steady. Not to trap, but to connect. To feel. "I've spent two years making sure you walk away from every damn firefight."
She opened her mouth to speak, but he pulled her closer.
"I got shot," he growled, voice shaking, "and all I could think about was whether I'd ever hear your voice again. Feel your hand on my arm. Smell your damn shampoo."
"You're delirious," she murmured.
"No." His voice was softer now. "No. I'm finally fucking clear."
He let go of her wrist and ran his palm down her arm—slow, steady, like memorizing her.
"I've bled for you. Lied for you. Rewritten orders just to keep you close." He shifted, breath catching, pain spiking white-hot in his ribs. Still—he spread his legs wider, grounding himself. "I'd do it all again."
His other hand slipped behind her neck, not to hold her in place, but to ground himself in the only thing that still made sense: her.
"And you…" His voice softened, going hoarse. "You hesitate. You pull back just as you get close. You pretend like you don't feel it."
She started to speak, but he drew her in, their foreheads pressed together, breaths tangled—warm and fast.
"I almost fucking died tonight," he whispered, voice shaking with everything he'd kept buried.
"Price—" Her voice was raw, holding more emotion than she ever let through. "Please, we'll talk about this later, you're losing blood."
"I'll lose more if it means you finally understand—this isn't a game."
He pulled her forward, gently, into his lap. Pain ripped through him, but he didn't let go. Couldn't. One hand clutched her waist. The other settled at the small of her back.
He breathed her in—smoke, skin, salt.
Not lust. Not command.
Something like absolution.
"This wound won't kill me," he whispered into her shoulder. "But your silence might."
And then—quieter still, voice breaking beneath the weight of it—
"Stay with me tonight. Please. Don't walk away like this means nothing. Don't… don't leave me in this."
His head fell back against the chair, chest rising and falling under her palms. Blood soaked both their clothes. His grip didn't ease. If anything, it tightened.
"If I die tonight," he murmured, "I want your scent on my skin."