Not soon enough, he thought ruefully, sponging antiseptic over his charred shoulder. His tissue had already begun to heal, and vampires were largely unaffected by germs or bacteria, but the cool liquid took some of the sting out of his burns.

With a worried glance to the unconscious werewolf on the couch, he set aside the gauze pad and bottle of solution and reached for one of the open medical books on the coffee table. He’d managed to stop the bleeding from the wounds Nathan had given her, but werewolves healed more slowly than vampires, almost at a mortal rate. Some of her injuries would need stitching, a task he didn’t look forward to.

At least she was asleep. It would spare him the inevitable womanly shrieking he’d endure if she was awake when he did it.

If he was honest with himself, he’d have to admit his real fear came from the thought she might see him pass out when he first tried to jab the needle through her flesh.

Taking a swig from the flask of Scotch Nathan thought he’d hidden well, Max rose and approached Bella’s unmoving form.

Asleep, she didn’t look half as bitchy as she did when she was awake. But that could have been the blood loss. “Okay, we got clean towels, we got this fishing line stuff, we got a…” He swallowed a tide of nausea. “We got a needle and these sterilizing wipes. I think we’re good to go.” He hadn’t been able to find the weird pincers thing the guy was using in the picture to hold the needle, but how hard could it be to just use fingers?

Kneeling beside the couch, Max reached for her ankle. If she’d been conscious she probably would have driven a stake through his heart for daring to touch her. She was lucky she’d decided to get mortally injured when he was in a charitable mood.

The leg of her leather pants lay open to her knee in much the same pattern her flesh did. He grabbed the bottle of Bactine and squirted it liberally into the jagged wound.

“Kill off anything that decided to move in,” he said, then felt like an ass for bothering to explain himself to a half-dead werewolf.

He flipped the curling edges of the fabric back for better access to the injury, then decided the pants would just have to go. Then he felt like a pervert.

First, he tried to be civil about the process, patiently but impotently struggling against the leather with kitchen shears. When it seemed he was more likely to slip and stab himself or her than actually cut the pants, he gripped the ruined fabric and yanked, splitting them to the waist. With another tug, her leg was bare from hip to toes.

God help him, she wore black lace panties.