The sight of his wounds, the severity of his injuries, paralyzed her with dread. Her breath hitched as she saw the deep cavity wound in his stomach, the muscle and tissue torn apart, exposing what should never be seen.
And then there was the deep graze of a bite on his leg, the flesh ripped away, leaving behind a jagged, raw wound.
Eleanor clenched her fists, the edges of her nails digging into her palms as she fought to steady herself.
This was Jack—her Jack—who had fought for them, who had bled for them. She couldn't lose him now. She wouldn't.
Her gaze fell on the black blood-stained cutlass beside him, the weapon that had been his lifeline, and an idea began to take shape in her mind.
It was desperate, perhaps even foolish, but it was all she had.
She grabbed the cutlass, the blade still warm from battle, and without a second thought, began slicing her own clothing into strips.
