“I can handle pain.”
“I’m sure you can.” I press the mixture gently but firmly into the deepest cut.
He arches against the tree with a sharp intake of air, his jaw clenched, but he doesn’t pull away.
“You’re doing great,” I murmur, working the paste into the other wounds with careful efficiency. “We’re almost done.”
His fingers dig into the ground, but he doesn’t utter a sound. When I glance up, I find him watching me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“You know what you’re doing,” he observes, his voice slightly hoarse.
“I’ve had a lot of practice taking care of myself.” I apply the last of the paste and sit back on my heels. “There. That should start drawing out the poison within a few minutes.”
I start cleaning my hands on a spare cloth and look around at the dead bodies in t
