“God.” He peered down. “Your artery is clawed, baby. Can you heal it? You’re bleeding like a geyser.”
Her teeth chattered, and she tried to concentrate and send healing cells to the wound, but she’d lost too much blood. She was too damn cold. “No.”
“Okay. Hold on. I’ve got you.” He jerked around and grabbed an overturned wooden chair, one of four. Quickly kicking them into small pieces, he shoved them into the brick fireplace. Fire danced down his arms, and he shot it toward the wood, which sputtered and died out. He looked around frantically and then yanked off his shirt, tore it into shreds, and placed the pieces under the wood.
“No, Daire,” she said weakly. He’d need his shirt.
“Shh.” He formed plasma balls again and set the material on fire. Claw marks marred his incredible back and arms, even his head. Through the temporary carnage, she spotted an intricate tattoo that began at his left shoulder blade and wound up his back and down his arm. A myriad of complex Celtic lines with a barely discernible C9E combined in the middle. His designation as an enforcer for the Coven Nine, the ruling body of witches. A sexy warning on his warrior’s body.
As she watched, the wounds began to close. Incredible. Witches could heal faster than any other species, probably because of the whole fire thing and their ability to alter matter through the use of quantum physics. She giggled.
He turned. “You’re going into shock.”
God, she hoped so. The pain was too much, and if she threw up, her head might really fall off.
The wood caught fire, and warmth began to permeate the small room. “Won’t the animals see the smoke?” she asked drowsily, swaying on the table.
“They’re animals, sweetheart. Not shifters.” He moved toward her and peered down at her arm. “Your head is bad, but nowhere as bad as your arm. You’re still bleeding too much.” Regret colored his tone, but she was so close to falling into the darkness, she didn’t wonder why. He smoothed the hair from her face. “You’re too weak to heal yourself, so I’ll have to. This might scar you. I’m sorry.”
She blinked.
He held her good arm, and a very pretty green fire danced on his free hand. Then he pressed it to her injuries along her bicep.
Agony! She screamed, her entire nervous system misfiring. All instinct, she kicked out, shoving against him and trying to get away from the flame. He held tight, giving no quarter. The scent of burned flesh banished the clean scent of wood on fire. Tears poured down her face, burning in her injuries.
He finally let go, and she leaned back, all fuzziness gone. Several gulping breaths brought her back to control.
“You okay?” he asked, smoothing bloody hair off her face.
She swallowed and tried to stem the tears. “Yes.” Her voice shook. “Thank you.”
He grimaced, and his warrior’s hand shook. “I know that hurt, and I’m not done.” He turned her arm over to reveal three thick, bloody lines down her forearm. “If we don’t stem the blood, you won’t be able to heal your face.”
If they didn’t stem the blood, she’d go into a coma and might not recover. “I know.” She tried to straighten her back, her gaze seeking his.
Sorrow and regret mingled with fury in his amazing green eyes. This was costing him more than her, if she had to guess. So she swallowed and tried to smile with the half of her face that still worked. “I’m fine, Enforcer. Let’s see your fire.”