Kidnapped a Don for Christmas

Stitching Him Up

Elyandre’s POV

"Here, I brought you whiskey. I really do hope that bullet is not still inside you. I guess it's time for me to have a look at your wounds," I say as I hand him the bottle. My hands are shaking slightly, but I am trying to act brave.

"What is your name?" His voice sounds rough. I think it is because he is in a lot of pain.

"My name is Elysandre, but everyone calls me Elsa. Who the hell are you?" I answer, squinting at him. I would be worried if I were him. Having me as a nurse is dangerous.

"I am… I can't remember my name," He says. He frowns as if he is trying hard to think. I throw my hands in the air.

"Oh, great. Now, how the hell am I going to find your family? Please tell me you do not have memory loss. Damn, how hard did you hit your head? What if your family is looking for you? It is almost Christmas. They might be looking for you. I do not think you are married unless you took off your wedding ring and were running from your lover's husband, and that is why you crashed, and maybe he shot you!" I say.

"Damn, you have a lot of theories about what happened to me. I do not think I will cheat on my wife, though. I do not think I am married. Don't you think if I had been married, the ring would leave like a mark on my finger?" He says.

"Well, we will have to think of a name for you, because I can’t call you ‘mister’ the whole time. I know what I’m going to call you, Charlie. Charlie was my little dog when I was a child. Besides, you look like you can be a Charles or something. You look wealthy. Normally, wealthy people have names like Charles, and they have affairs," I pace a little, mumbling to myself.

I hope he is not offended that I just named him after my childhood dog or that I think he had an affair, but to be honest, a man that looks like him and is built like him cannot be single!. He really looks like he can be Charles the Third or something. He looks European enough. Well, not English, but maybe Italian or something like that. He swallows the whiskey as if it were water, and I am getting worried that he might get drunk, but maybe it’s better if he is drunk than he is in pain. Oh gosh, I guess I’ll have to patch him up. I don’t know if I can go to the doctor. I don’t know who he is or if somebody is looking for him. Maybe some people want to hurt him. So, what am I going to do with him? Man, I only wanted a quiet holiday and to heal my wounds, and now I am here looking after a man who needs healing. If only I could find out who his family is so that they can come and take him off my hands.

“I’m going to get some warm water,” I say. “Then we will have to wash you to see how bad the wound on your shoulder is. Maybe I should go get the town doctor, but it is snowing so badly outside, I don’t think I’ll be able to make it to town. Besides, I do not want to put too much attention on you because maybe those guys who tried to kill you are coming back for you. Maybe they didn’t rob you. Maybe they tried to kill you for other reasons. I still believe you had an affair and your lover's husband is looking for you,” I keep talking as I move around the small room. I know I talk too much and too fast. It is because I am nervous. I never took out a bullet or stitched up someone before.

“Why do these things always have to happen to me?” I mutter. “All I wanted to do was get away from my ex-fiancé and my sister, who I caught in bed together. I just wanted a peaceful Christmas alone in the cabin. I have the worst luck in the world.”

"Do you always talk this much?" Charlie asks, resting his head back against the headboard. I freeze mid-step, then narrow my eyes. Before I can snap back, he adds, “Anyway, I’m sorry to hear about your fiancé and your sister. What kind of sister sleeps with your fiancé?”

“The kind that is always jealous of me. I do not know what I have done to deserve it. Anyway, I’m over it. I’m over Mark, and I’m not going to go back to him even if he begs me. Not that I think he will, because he seemed to enjoy my sister more than he enjoyed me. Besides, can you talk? You had an affair, and your lover's husband shot you,” I say.

"So you have made up your mind that I am a cheater like your fiancé? I can understand that you hate men after what he did, but it does not mean all men are evil," Charlie says. I say nothing. I know he is right. I cannot accuse him of doing things just because he is a handsome man, and I cannot believe he is single. I walk out of the room to fetch the things I will need to play doctor. I walk back into the room with a bucket of warm water and a first-aid kit that hasn’t been used in years. I kneel beside the bed and start cleaning the blood off his shoulder carefully at first, then less carefully when I try to clean the deep wounds.

"Well, I think it's stupid of your fiancé to cheat on you. You are beautiful ... ouch, can you be a little gentler?" Charlie asks when I hit a tender spot.

"I'm sorry! I told you, I'm not a nurse or a doctor," I say, trying to be delicate again. “However, it looks like the bullet went right through you. That means I do not have to take it out, thank goodness! There’s an awful hole at the back of your shoulder. We will have to close the wound somehow, but please do not ask me to put stitches in there because I am sure I’m going to faint. Perhaps I should go and see if I can get the town doctor.”

"No. What if I’m a criminal and the police are looking for me?" He asks. f**k, I have not thought about that. What if he is a hitman or something?

"Oh wow, I did not think about that. What if you are a criminal?" I sit back on my heels, studying him like he is about to sprout horns. “You don't look like one, though. And I don't believe criminals wear Armani suits. Even your shoes are expensive. Your watch is worth more than my whole year's salary. I don't believe you're a criminal.”

"You know, some criminals do wear Armani,” Charlie says. “What if the police were chasing me, and they were the ones shooting at me?"

"Don't be stupid. I am sure a criminal will not drive an SUV like yours that everybody can see. Besides, if the police were looking for you, wouldn’t there be dogs and everything already searching for you? I will have to go back to your SUV and see if I can find anything of yours inside so we can at least identify you. If you are a criminal, I will have to turn you in. I am not going to get involved by hiding you from the authorities.”

“Okay. I think the only thing I can do right now is get a needle, burn it, and try to stitch you, but I’m sure I’m going to faint. You really have me worried now. What if I am aiding a criminal? I’m not going to jail with you.” I wipe my forehead dramatically.

I stand, breathe in, breathe out, then nod to myself. I am preparing for what I will have to do. “Okay. The wound is clean. I’m going to stitch it up. I know I can do this… I hope.”

I take an old sewing needle from a small tin and hold it over a candle flame. The metal glows faintly, and I swallow hard before approaching him again. I brace myself. I know this is going to hurt him. I am sure I am going to faint, but I cannot faint right now. If I faint, what the hell is going to happen to this guy? I have to stitch him up. I want to vomit. However, I pretend that it is a piece of material. It's not the best freaking needlework I have ever done because I am not somebody who can do things like this. I’m not a housewife. I cannot stitch, I cannot cook, I cannot do anything. But I am going to learn. Even if I’m learning to stitch a human together. I’m learning to stitch. I’m also going to teach myself how to bake Christmas cookies, and I have to keep thinking about something else, or else I am going to faint. My hand trembles as I pull the thread through his skin. Every time I push the needle in, I wince. I can only imagine how much pain he must be in. He takes another sip of whisky. I wish he would hold still. However, I know it must be painful. I keep muttering apologies under my breath, blaming the poor lighting, blaming the needle, blaming him for “having such thick skin.” I can feel my face grow paler with each stitch.

“Elsa,” He whispers when I sway slightly. “Don’t pass out.”

“I’m not going to pass out,” I say … then add, “I hope,”

I make the last stitch, tie it off with a shaking hand, and let out a breath of relief. I'm pretty sure I was holding my breath the entire time without realising it. When I finally look up at him, his cheeks are flushed and his hair messy. I’m not sure if it is from the whiskey or the pain.

“Okay, Charlie… I did it. I stitched you up. If you die now, it’s not my fault,” I say. He laughs. A real laugh. It surprises me as he does not look like a guy who laughs a lot.

“I’m lucky you found me,” He says before he passes out. Again, I don’t know if it is from the whiskey or the pain. I don’t mind. As long as he’s asleep, I will have to go to the SUV.

The snow has stopped a little. Maybe I can make it to the SUV and back before he wakes up. Maybe I can find his cell phone or something. Maybe if I find this cell phone, I can call his parents or wife. It is something I did not think about. What if he has a wife and children waiting for him to return home for Christmas.