Theea
they may say you're too small, you're too young
to do it all, but you're a giant on the inside
to do it all, but you're a giant on the inside
It all happens so fast I can hardly separate the moments. The beast’s snarling face fills my vision one second, teeth bared and eyes burning, and then Damien’s voice rips through the air, raw and furious. The leopard convulses, thrashes once, and then collapses into the snow with a strangled hiss. Silence crashes in—broken only by the sound of our ragged breathing and the restless wind.
My hand presses against my ribs, cradling the fresh wound, breath shuddering in short gasps. My name cuts through the haze. "Damien," I blurt at once, stomach twisting at the thought of him not being okay. But then he’s shoving the carcass aside, crimson spilling bright into white, and pulling me into him before I can stumble.
I don’t wobble—adrenaline still courses hot through my limbs—but the moment the danger ebbs, the pain surges sharp and undeniable. It’s only then I notice how much blood there is. Not just mine. His. Flowing just as badly. I’m shaking, I realize distantly, but it doesn’t matter. My eyes climb to his face, reading the distress there, then flick to the red-stained snow and finally his arm where the jaws had clamped down.
I part my lips to answer when he asks if I can walk, though I know it’ll be slow, halting, clumsy at best. But before I can get the words out, he’s scooping me up. “No—your arm—” I protest, breathless. The motion sparks another flare of agony along my ribs and I suck in a sharp hiss. But then I’m settled against him, my arm looped weakly around his neck for balance, and the world steadies a little. It still hurts, gods it hurts, but I know it would be far worse if I were walking.
Gratitude swells sharp in my chest, chased quickly by guilt. I know this is hurting him. And I know, just as surely, he’ll be too stubborn to put me down.
The trek is steady but agonizing, every crunch of snow measured against his injuries. When we finally reach the den and he lowers me onto a patch of bare stone out of the wind, I exhale a tight, shaking “Thank you.”
I try for reassurance, for bravado. “It’s really not that bad,” I manage, voice thin. But when I glance down and see the torn mess of my side, the meaty gashes weeping hot against the cold, the grimace betrays me. My smile is unsteady, but as bright as I can manage when I look back up at him. “See? All my insides are where they should be.”
But it doesn’t mask the tension in my voice, nor the way my chest tightens when my gaze catches on his arm again. Worry sharpens through the haze of my own pain. “Damien…”
My hand presses against my ribs, cradling the fresh wound, breath shuddering in short gasps. My name cuts through the haze. "Damien," I blurt at once, stomach twisting at the thought of him not being okay. But then he’s shoving the carcass aside, crimson spilling bright into white, and pulling me into him before I can stumble.
I don’t wobble—adrenaline still courses hot through my limbs—but the moment the danger ebbs, the pain surges sharp and undeniable. It’s only then I notice how much blood there is. Not just mine. His. Flowing just as badly. I’m shaking, I realize distantly, but it doesn’t matter. My eyes climb to his face, reading the distress there, then flick to the red-stained snow and finally his arm where the jaws had clamped down.
I part my lips to answer when he asks if I can walk, though I know it’ll be slow, halting, clumsy at best. But before I can get the words out, he’s scooping me up. “No—your arm—” I protest, breathless. The motion sparks another flare of agony along my ribs and I suck in a sharp hiss. But then I’m settled against him, my arm looped weakly around his neck for balance, and the world steadies a little. It still hurts, gods it hurts, but I know it would be far worse if I were walking.
Gratitude swells sharp in my chest, chased quickly by guilt. I know this is hurting him. And I know, just as surely, he’ll be too stubborn to put me down.
The trek is steady but agonizing, every crunch of snow measured against his injuries. When we finally reach the den and he lowers me onto a patch of bare stone out of the wind, I exhale a tight, shaking “Thank you.”
I try for reassurance, for bravado. “It’s really not that bad,” I manage, voice thin. But when I glance down and see the torn mess of my side, the meaty gashes weeping hot against the cold, the grimace betrays me. My smile is unsteady, but as bright as I can manage when I look back up at him. “See? All my insides are where they should be.”
But it doesn’t mask the tension in my voice, nor the way my chest tightens when my gaze catches on his arm again. Worry sharpens through the haze of my own pain. “Damien…”
