Bloodline [h.s.]

fifty.

"Birth control." She muttered, slightly uncomfortable, but Dean remained unfazed. He was too focus on treating the injury. To our confusion, he handed her a hand towel. "What is this?"

"Something for you to bite down on. I told you I don't have access to local until the clinic opens in the morning. It will be painful." He reminded her. Imagining how painful this was going to be for her made me stomach churn.

"Stop, no, Bee, please. Let me take you to a hospital, baby, please." I pleaded in a last stitch attempt. She shook her head. As Dean got his supplies from across the room, she tugged my arm to get me closer.

"Can you do something for me?" She asked.

"Anything." I promised.

"Wait outside. Please. I don't want you to see me like this." She said, opened my mouth to object immediately. "And, before you say no, remember you just said anything."

"Bee, please don't—"

"Everything is going to be fine. This isn't an image of me I want you to have. Wait in the hallway." She pleaded softly as she ran her thumb in circles on the back of my hand.

As I brought her hand to my lips, a second gold band that wasn't there at the start of the evening hung on her finger. Her hand remained in a fist with her middle finger hugging inwards as though she was hiding the other side of the ring.

"I'll be right outside." I agreed as Dean lowered the neck line of her dress to start cleaning the wound. All my willpower sinking into my legs, I walked into the hallway.

Fists clenched and trembling at my sides, I stood with my back against the door. An overwhelming feeling of helplessness knocked the wind out of me. The door didn't block out her muffled cries of pain into the towel or the sound of Dr. Perfect comforting her as he cleaned the wound.

I hated that I wasn't in there. I hated that I didn't stop this from happening. And that now, I would have to explain to explain to her what Allegiance was. Another harsher sound from Bee pierced the wooden door and gutted my insides. He must have began stitching the wound. My eyes wired shut wishing I could will it all away.

The silence was almost worse. Had she passed out? Or was she containing her discomfort?

Hearing her suffer, even in the slightest, was a unique kind of desperation. It's the kind that reminds you that how pathetically mortal you are. No matter how much you train. No matter much you prepare, the confines of humanity are devastating. And its limits screamed against my eardrums as I listened to her suffer. Under the boot of mortality, my skeleton squirmed to escape. Viscous desperation gathered in my throat.

Forty minutes or four hours later, the door handle turned. Dean opened the door, looking exhausted.

"Wait," he stopped me as I tried to go inside, "she told me what happened."

"Yeah, and?" I said, impatiently. His eyes were narrowed, his arms crossed defensively. He was testing to see if my responses contradicted hers.

"Is Bridget avoiding going to the police to cover for you?" He questioned.

"What are you talking about?" I asked, growing irritated.