Iyisha's POV
The moment the door slammed, Iyisha's back hit the wall hard. His hand pressed against her throat — not choking, but close enough to threaten. She winced, breath catching.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" he growled.
She should've been terrified. And she was — his strength, the heat in his eyes, the raw tension of it.
But something else sparked inside her too, deep and shameful. He was handsome in a rugged way that didn't belong to the world before the fall.
Masculine, broad-shouldered, all muscle under grime and blood. His jaw was sharp, dusted with stubble, and his eyes were electric blue, startling and cold. Blonde hair fell messily around his face, damp with sweat. He looked like a man who'd been sculpted for war, not peace.
The weight of his body, the way he towered over her, the pressure of his hand — it lit something she didn't expect.
She had never been touched like that. Never needed to be. But she knew what her body was doing.
She was wet.
And she hated that she could feel it. Hated that this man — this stranger — could pin her like prey and still stir something that felt too close to want.
Then, after a few seconds, he pulled back. His hand dropped. He stepped away, breathing hard.
For a second, she thought he might hit the wall or throw something. But instead, he staggered.
Not out of anger.
Out of pain.
She blinked. The pieces came together.
His hand pressed against his thigh, fingers twitching slightly. Sweat had started to bead on his forehead, despite the chill.
He muttered, "Stay here. Don't move."
Then he leaned on one of the chairs. Sat down. Shoulders hunched. Breathing uneven.
"You're bleeding," she said quietly.
"No shit."
She stepped forward, cautiously. The hostility in his eyes was dulling — fast. His jaw clenched as he tried to stay upright. She noticed the dark stain soaking through his pants at the thigh.
"Were you bitten?" she asked, stepping back instinctively, fear flickering in her eyes.
His head snapped toward her, eyes flat and sharp.
"No," he muttered. "Cut myself a few days ago. Barbed fence."
"How long?"
He didn't answer. Just shook his head and let out a low grunt.
He slumped back. That was when she moved, fast and deliberate, kneeling by his leg. "Let me see."
"Don't touch me," he mumbled, his tone tight.
She let out a breath, exasperated. "I already told you — I'm a doctor. I can help you."
"You say you're a doctor," he muttered. "Prove it."
She reached into her backpack, but before she could unzip the pouch, his hand shot out, fast despite his state, clamping around her wrist.
"What are you doing?"
"Medicine," she said, eyes steady. "I took it before they kicked me out."
He hesitated a moment longer, eyes still locked on hers, then finally released her wrist. Only then did she unzip the pouch and pull the supplies out — careful, deliberate movements because she knew he was still watching her every move.
She looked at him first, waiting for a sign. He gave a small, tight nod. That was all she needed.
She grabbed her knife and sliced open the pant leg. The fabric peeled back to reveal a gash. Red, raw, and swollen. Pus at the edges.
"Damn," she whispered. "You should've cleaned this days ago."
"I'm not stupid," he said through gritted teeth. "Fell into a mudpit crawling under a fence. Guess something in there got in the cut."
She remembered seeing him outside the old pharmacy. She hadn't gone in, it was already stripped bare years ago but maybe he went in.
"Is that why you were limping around town?" she asked, her voice softer now.
He didn't answer. Tried to stand, maybe to end the conversation but the second he put weight on his leg, pain shot through him and he nearly buckled.
"You'll die if you don't let me clean that," she said firmly. "If the infection reaches your bloodstream, you'll be in sepsis before morning."
He looked at her for a long time. Not speaking. Just watching. She could see the gears turning in his head before he finally sat down again.
He looked at her, disbelief flickering in his expression.
The cut wasn't deep, but it was angry — swollen and pulsing with heat, the skin around it red and inflamed. It hadn't turned black yet, but it was close. Just a few more days of running on it, and it would've taken him out.
"We need to move you to the bed," she said, already sliding her arm under his.
He gave her a look. "Not in the mood to be bedded, doc."
She rolled her eyes and helped him anyway. Once she got him settled, she bent over the wound again.
Just as she reached for the alcohol, his hand shot out, fingers wrapping tight around her wrist.
"I'm getting the alcohol to clean your wounds," she said flatly.
"Got any other kind of alcohol?" he muttered through his teeth.
"I do," she said, "but not for drinking."
She held the leg steady and poured the alcohol slowly, carefully cleaning the swollen, inflamed wound. The scent of infection still made her stomach twist, but her hands were steady. Malcolm's whole body went rigid, teeth grinding together as the burn set in.
"Keep going," he grunted.
She poured more alcohol to flush it, scrubbing gently but thoroughly around the swollen wound. He let out a guttural sound, one fist gripping the edge of the bed so hard his knuckles went white.
She worked quickly, breathing through her mouth. "Almost done," she said, though she wasn't sure if it was for him or herself.
When the area was clean and the redness hadn't spread further, she reached into her kit, pulled out gauze, and wrapped the wound tightly. The bleeding had mostly stopped and now it was about keeping it from getting worse.
His head rolled back, soaked with sweat. Eyes glassy. But he was still conscious but barely.
Iyisha checked his forehead again. Burning. She dug into her pouch and pulled out two antibiotic tablets. "Take these," she said, pressing them into his palm. He swallowed them dry, not even blinking.
"That fever's climbing fast," she muttered, watching him carefully. "I just saved your life. You better pay me back."
He mumbled something unintelligible before his eyes rolled back and he slumped sideways, fully unconscious.
Hours passed. In the middle of the night, he thrashed once, then started muttering — delirious, half caught in fever-dreams. She stayed close, wiping his forehead, forcing sips of water between his lips when she could.
She didn't sleep. Just listened to his breathing and the noises outside the door, wondering if this man she barely knew was really worth saving. Maybe.
Close to dawn, he stirred — not waking fully, but mumbling under his breath. She leaned closer, trying to make it out.
"You better take me to Halstead," she whispered. "You owe me that much."
She kept talking, quietly, insistently. "Say it. Say you'll take me with you."
He didn't respond at first. Then, barely audible —
"Fine... just stop talking."
She smiled, satisfied. It was enough.