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
I keep my eyes locked on him, because if I let them drift to my ribs, I’m going to faint. The pain is a living thing, sharp and burning, radiating outward until it feels like it’s in every part of me. Damien digs into his pack with frantic precision, like this is life or death, and for the first time I wonder if it is. I thought it was just claws—painful, sure, but survivable. Then his big hand covers mine, pressing the cloth firm to my side, and the heat of it jolts me into awareness of just how much blood I’m losing. I’m dizzy, but I keep the pressure steady because he asked me to, knowing how important it is.
So I watch him. Every detail. The sharp clench of his jaw, the flicker of muscle in his cheek when he tears a strip of cloth with his teeth, the near-desperation in his dark eyes. It roots me, keeps me present. Even the antiseptic sting when he presses it to my side—I hiss through my teeth, spine arching away from the burn—becomes another anchor.
Then he says my name, low and steady, and I know what’s coming. My stomach lurches when I see the needle, but his gaze pins mine, and when he presses cloth gently against my lips, I part them and bite down. I nod once, jaw set. I’m ready. Or at least I want to be. Gods, I wish Deimos’ unicorn were here.
The first stab of the needle makes me groan into the cloth, eyes squeezing shut. The second, I jerk despite myself. By the third, I break out in a cold sweat, my vision narrowing to a tunnel. I almost go under, but I force myself to look at him again, at the steady rhythm of his hands, and I match my breath to it. In, out. Bite, pull, bite. I yield to the rhythm of the pain, because if I fight it, it’ll undo me.
By the time he’s finished, I’m trembling, pale, every muscle spent. The cave feels warmer now, or maybe it’s just the feverish burn of my body trying to keep me upright. I pull the rag from my teeth and let my head tip back against the cold stone wall. My eyes sting with tears I don’t want to shed, not now. That fucking hurt.
I look back at him, my brows pulling together, and the gratitude I feel nearly knocks the breath from me. Gratitude, and guilt, because I promised to watch his back and I didn’t. My gaze catches on his arm, the mess of punctures and blood, and my chest clenches tight.
“Some of those need to be closed,” I tell him, willing my hands to stop shaking as I reach toward him. My voice is weak but steady, my lips twitching into a thin smile. “It’s only fair, after all that. Besides… it’ll be better with someone else doing it.”
I hold out my hand for the needle, hand steadier, pale but determined.
So I watch him. Every detail. The sharp clench of his jaw, the flicker of muscle in his cheek when he tears a strip of cloth with his teeth, the near-desperation in his dark eyes. It roots me, keeps me present. Even the antiseptic sting when he presses it to my side—I hiss through my teeth, spine arching away from the burn—becomes another anchor.
Then he says my name, low and steady, and I know what’s coming. My stomach lurches when I see the needle, but his gaze pins mine, and when he presses cloth gently against my lips, I part them and bite down. I nod once, jaw set. I’m ready. Or at least I want to be. Gods, I wish Deimos’ unicorn were here.
The first stab of the needle makes me groan into the cloth, eyes squeezing shut. The second, I jerk despite myself. By the third, I break out in a cold sweat, my vision narrowing to a tunnel. I almost go under, but I force myself to look at him again, at the steady rhythm of his hands, and I match my breath to it. In, out. Bite, pull, bite. I yield to the rhythm of the pain, because if I fight it, it’ll undo me.
By the time he’s finished, I’m trembling, pale, every muscle spent. The cave feels warmer now, or maybe it’s just the feverish burn of my body trying to keep me upright. I pull the rag from my teeth and let my head tip back against the cold stone wall. My eyes sting with tears I don’t want to shed, not now. That fucking hurt.
I look back at him, my brows pulling together, and the gratitude I feel nearly knocks the breath from me. Gratitude, and guilt, because I promised to watch his back and I didn’t. My gaze catches on his arm, the mess of punctures and blood, and my chest clenches tight.
“Some of those need to be closed,” I tell him, willing my hands to stop shaking as I reach toward him. My voice is weak but steady, my lips twitching into a thin smile. “It’s only fair, after all that. Besides… it’ll be better with someone else doing it.”
I hold out my hand for the needle, hand steadier, pale but determined.
