"You go. I can make it out there on my own." Ewan insisted.
Seeing Ewan biting his lip until it nearly bled in an attempt to restrain himself, Asher realized that his mere presence, and likely his own pheromones, was only serving to make the Omega standing before him lose control even faster. With a sharp nod of understanding, he hurriedly retreated to the kitchen, presumably to prepare the medicine.
Summoning every ounce of his remaining strength, Ewan managed to drag himself to the detached bathroom located at the back of the property. At this point, in his feverish state, he could not care less if the water was freezing cold. He hastily hauled a small bucket of water into the stall. In moments like these, he found himself harboring a deep-seated resentment for this primitive, detached bathroom setup. Even the simple act of bathing required manual labor to fetch water; it was incredibly inconvenient and physically taxing.
As the stream of cold water cascaded over his flushed body, Ewan shuddered violently from the shock. However, the biting temperature worked wonders, and the uncomfortable, burning heat that had been consuming him from the inside began to subside. He let out a sharp, ragged exhale, his entire frame trembling from the frigid temperature of the water, but the relief of no longer being entirely dominated by his biological instincts made him feel significantly lighter.
He washed himself with trembling hands, scrubbing away the grime of the day. After spending the entire day digging in the dirt, he was as filthy as a little mud clod. Now, despite the biting cold that made his teeth chatter, he knew he had to scrub himself clean with care.
By the time Ewan emerged from the bathroom, nearly half an hour had elapsed. He clutched his thick cotton coat tightly around his frame, shivering uncontrollably as the cold wind bit into his damp skin. Moving as quickly as his frozen limbs would allow, Ewan dashed straight for the kitchen, intending to siphon a bit of warmth from the stove to stop the shaking.
However, the moment Ewan reached the threshold, his feet rooted to the spot. Once again, the metallic tang of blood assaulted his senses. In fact, this pungent, iron-heavy scent was even more aggressive than before, now mingled with the bitter, astringent aroma of boiling herbs rising from the pot.
Something was not right. Earlier, the scratch on Asher's hand had been minuscule, the blood already drying up. Why would the scent of blood be so overpowering now?
Thinking back on it with a clearer mind, the intensity of the blood scent he had smelled in the room earlier seemed excessive for such a minor injury. It was just that Ewan, compromised by the pheromones and the heat, had not possessed the clarity of mind to analyze it at the time.
Could it be that Asher was seriously injured?
With that alarming thought propelling him forward, Ewan hurriedly squeezed through the kitchen doorway. His eyes immediately landed on Asher Ryder's bare back. The man was shirtless, exposing his well-defined musculature, and there, on his upper arm near the shoulder blade, was a gash about five centimeters long, still oozing fresh blood. Asher had his head tilted to the side, struggling to sprinkle medicinal powder from a small bottle onto the wound at an awkward angle.
"You are hurt?" Ewan's voice came out urgent and breathless, cutting through the silence.
The sudden sound startled Asher, causing his hand to tremble. A large amount of the medicinal powder dumped directly into the open wound, the stinging pain causing the Alpha to flinch visibly.
"Ah, it is just a small scratch. You are done washing up? The medicine is ready, go ahead and drink it."
Seeing Asher move to clear the medical supplies aside to pour the medicine for him, ignoring his own condition, Ewan rushed forward to stop him: "Finish bandaging your wound first."
As he spoke, Ewan approached, picking up the clean strip of cloth that Asher had left on the side. He held it carefully in his hands. "Do you need to sprinkle more powder on it?"
"No need. Just leave it be, I can bandage it myself.," Asher insisted.
Asher tried to prevent him from helping, but his protests were futile against Ewan's determination. The Omega meticulously wrapped the clean cloth around the man's muscular bicep, his movements gentle. Perhaps the wound had already been sufficiently treated by Asher's powder, as the active bleeding seemed to have stopped. However, as the white cloth covered the injury, it quickly became stained with patchy red blotches, evidence of the fresh trauma.
In that moment, both of them completely forgot a crucial fact: Alpha blood was a potent pheromone conductor. Under normal circumstances, it would not be an issue. But for an Omega in a sensitive period, one who did not adapt well to suppressants like Ewan, it was incredibly dangerous.
It was especially perilous considering Ewan had, once again, nearly exhausted his mental energy for the day.
Yet, neither of them paid any mind to this critical detail. After securing the bandage, Ewan looked at Asher's injured arm, his voice tinged with apprehension and guilt: "Was it because you were getting those things for me?"
Before leaving earlier, Asher had mentioned that the honey was difficult to harvest and he was not sure he could bring it back. Furthermore, previously, both Uncle Trent and Simon's mother had told Ewan that there was not a hunter in the village who possessed skills comparable to Asher Ryder.
Under normal circumstances, venturing into the dense, unforgiving forests of the frontier was second nature to Asher Ryder. He moved through the wilderness with the silent grace of a predator, his skills honed by years of survival, and it was exceedingly rare for him to return with even a scratch, let alone a genuine injury. The wilderness respected him, or perhaps it feared him.
The only logical explanation for this anomaly, the only variable that had changed in his calculated routine, was his singular determination to harvest wild honey and forage for high-grade pollen for Ewan. It was this distraction, this deviation from his usual pragmatic hunting patterns, that had led to the man sustaining a wound. The realization of this fact weighed heavily on Ewan's conscience, pressing down on him like a physical burden. A profound sense of guilt washed over him, causing his posture to collapse inward. He lowered his small head, allowing the curtain of his chestnut hair to fall forward, effectively shielding his eyes and the misery swimming within them from the world.