Taming My Time-Traveling Lover in My Bed: The Savage King

His blue eyes flickered with surprise, but it was quickly swallowed by suspicion.

"You wish to use your sorcery on me?" he rasped, his chin lifted in defiance despite the deathly pallor of his skin.

Katherine kept her hands raised, her pulse thudding in her ears.

"It's not sorcery," she said firmly. "It's science. Medicine."

She had to make him understand. She couldn't fight him; she had to outsmart him.

"I have some medical training," Katherine said. It wasn't entirely a lie. She had taken a wilderness first responder course before a charity expedition to Patagonia three years ago—a course that had covered wound cleaning, basic suturing, and emergency antibiotic use in backcountry situations. Far more than the CPR class most of her peers had breezed through at charity luncheons. "I have a medical kit right here."

She pointed with her chin toward the metal box in the corner.

"Medicine?" he repeated the word like it was a curse.

A fresh wave of pain hit him. He doubled over slightly, a groan escaping his clenched teeth. The sword wavered, dropping a fraction of an inch.

Katherine saw her opening.

"You don't have a choice," she said, her voice hard. "You can either trust me, or you can bleed to death on my sheets. Your sword can't kill blood loss."

He stared at her, his chest heaving. He was assessing her, weighing his options. She met his gaze head-on, refusing to show the terror that was making her stomach churn.

Finally, he gave a slight nod.

"Where is it?" he asked, the command still present in his weak voice.

"Over there." She pointed again. "I need to walk over there to get it."

He gestured with the sword, permitting her to move, but his eyes never left her.

Katherine walked slowly, every step deliberate. She could feel his gaze boring into her back like a laser. She reached the red metal box on the shelf and popped it open.

Inside, everything was neatly organized. Alcohol pads, gauze, medical tape, a suture kit, a bottle of ibuprofen, and an emergency blister pack of broad-spectrum antibiotics—leftovers from the dental surgery she'd had the previous spring. Katherine took a steadying breath. She grabbed the alcohol and a stack of gauze.

She turned back to him. "I need to clean the wound. It's going to hurt."

He let out a bitter laugh that turned into a cough. "This pain is nothing compared to a single lie at a royal banquet."

Katherine paused, thrown off by the bizarre statement. She didn't have time to decipher his delusions.

She approached the bed, the smell of blood overwhelming the antiseptic scent of the alcohol. Her stomach roiled, but she swallowed the bile down.

She reached out to unbutton his ruined coat.

Instantly, his body went rigid. The sword snapped back up, pressing against her collarbone.

"Do not touch me!" he snarled, his eyes wild.

Katherine jumped back, her hands flying up again. "I have to see the wound to fix it! The alcohol will ruin your coat anyway!"

She realized her mistake. In his twisted mind, she was probably violating some sort of noble honor code.

He hesitated, looking down at his blood-soaked shirt. It was a garment of obvious quality, now reduced to rags. A flash of pain crossed his face that had nothing to do with his injury.

With a grimace, he reached up with his free hand. His fingers fumbled with the buttons, shaking from the effort, before he simply ripped the fabric open, exposing his stomach.

The gash was ugly. It was deep, the edges ragged and inflamed. It looked like a blade had sliced him open.

Katherine took a deep breath. She soaked a gauze pad in alcohol.

"This is going to burn." she warned.

She pressed the pad to his skin.

His entire body jerked. The muscles in his abdomen contracted violently. A hiss of air escaped his teeth, but he didn't scream. He didn't even groan. He just sat there, his jaw locked, his eyes squeezed shut, enduring the agony in silence.

Katherine worked quickly, wiping away the blood and dirt. She was amazed by his tolerance. He had a will of iron.

As she cleaned the area near his ribs, her knuckles brushed against his skin. It was burning hot. He was running a terrible fever.

She finished wrapping the wound with gauze, securing it tightly. The bleeding slowed, but the infection was still there, simmering beneath the surface.

He leaned back against the headboard, his chest heaving. The sword slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the mattress. He was too weak to hold it anymore.

He was at her mercy.