UNEDITED
Calla Henrik's family runs the best ATV business in town, and she's ready to take over the family business for the summer while her parents go on a much-needed vacation. She's ready to earn some money before she attends the University of A...
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Maddox
"There you go," I smile, placing the final Band-Aid on Feyre's arm. "You're as good as new."
Feyre inspects the work I've done. It was a battle to get her to sit still and let me disinfect her cuts, but bribery benefited me. Feyre told me Lindsay never lets her have s'mores, so I told her I'd make her one if she let me work. I figured I might as well worsen my reputation—Lindsay already hates me. What damage is making a s'more going to do? It's nothing I can't handle. I've been through much worse than glares and muttered words.
"When do I get my s'more?" she asks.
"After dinner," I reply, organizing my first-aid kit.
Feyre leans over my shoulder, her hands resting on my back, and stares down at the kitchen table. "What are you doing?"
"Um, organizing my first-aid kit," I reply. I don't know what it is about this kid, but she makes me nervous. While she shares physical features with Lindsay and Isaiah, she reminds me of Calla. She's very vocal and likes to know what's going on.
She leans forward a little more, her long, light-brown locks tickling my biceps. I side-glance the kid and catch a look of wonder in her hazel eyes. "Why do you need all this stuff?"
"In case someone gets hurt," I reply, stuffing the gauze next to the antiseptic wipes. "Calla wiped out, and I had to stitch her up."
Her gaze snaps to mine and her eyes widen. "Aunty Calla hurt herself? What did you use to help?" She reaches for the mesh wire aluminum splint. "This thing?"
Because I'm protective of my first-aid kit, I have the powerful urge to smack her hand away and close the lid before she can rummage through it again. I, however, prevent myself from doing so. She's a kid, and I don't want to appear indifferent. "No, that's a mesh wire aluminum splint. It's for temporarily setting a broken bone."
Feyre sets the splint down on the table and climbs onto my lap. She rests her elbows on the table, her small fingers tapping against her chin as she stares at the first-aid kit. "What did you use?"
"I, uh, used this," I reply, removing the suture kit. "A needle and thread to stitch her skin back together. The gash was deep."
"Hmm..." she says. "Did it hurt?"
A ghost of a smile makes its way across my face as I recall memories of Calla that day. I still find it funny she's grossed out by her own blood. She didn't show her pain, but I know she was distressed by the needle threading in and out of her skin. The odd curse escaped her mouth, but she was more concerned about her expensive jersey than the gash. "Your aunt was very brave," I clarify. "It hurt her because she didn't have access to the proper medications. I'm thankful she trusted me to help her, though."
"You're brave," Feyre argues, crossing her arms. Her gaze is enough to strike a man down; I want to cower in the corner. "Using a needle seems scary. I probably would have hurt Aunty Calla."
