I oblige, the invigorating boost of victory sliding through my veins. She rinses and wrings the material again, then sidesteps to stand in front of me, making sure to leave a generous amount of space between us. With her arm completely outstretched, she starts to wipe the damp shirt over my jaw, my cheek.
I can’t take my eyes off her. Even if I could, I wouldn’t want to. She’s fucking beautiful. So beautiful I feel like a prick for understanding why someone would want to steal her. “You can come closer.”
She doesn’t pause her movements. Doesn’t even acknowledge I spoke. But after a while she shuffles forward, inch by inch, gaining a better vantage point to clean my wound, her bare toes touching the front of my boots.
She comes close. A breath away. And with each progression the air thickens around us, the atmosphere gaining an edge of trepidation.
It feels like one wrong move will have the peace of this moment transformed into another attempt on my life, or worse, she’ll retreat into the defensive, resentful woman who grates on my nerves.
“When I mentioned my nightmare never ending, I wasn’t referring to the mental struggle I’m going to be up against. I was talking about Luther’s men and how they’ll make sure I disappear. They won’t stop looking for me.”
“They can’t look when they’re dead.”
“And you’re going to kill them all?”
“Damn straight.”
She pauses, sighs, and shakes her head as she stares longingly over my shoulder. “Believe me, the bad guys always win.”
“Well, lucky for you, I haven’t been one of the good guys for a while.”
She stiffens. Almost imperceptibly. The next dab of the shirt is a direct impact to my bullet wound.
“Fuck me, shorty.” I jerk back at the stab of agony. “Can you try keeping the material out of my brain?”
“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Sure you did.” I fake a smirk, trying to soften the fear I’ve reawakened in her. Jesus. She’s more skittish than a wild animal. “You’re trying to destroy my tough-guy status, remember?”
Her lips curve in a barely there smile. It’s almost imperceptible. Entirely subtle. The brief glimpse of happiness reaches her eyes, transforming the cornered wild cat into a blindingly brilliant beauty of a woman. But as quickly as the vision hits, the carefree gorgeousness fades.
“You need stitches,” she murmurs.
I stare at her, willing the beauty to return. I want to see that smile again. Bigger and brighter. Cemented in place.
My dick pulses with compounding need, the perverted reaction enough for me to right the approaching train wreck.
I clear my throat. “Yeah, I figured as much.” I turn my head away to grab the tiny sewing kit I found in the utensils drawer of the kitchen. My idiotic libido is nothing more pain won’t fix. “How are you with a needle and thread?”
“I guess that depends on how twitchy you’ll be knowing I’m holding something sharp close to your skull.” She takes the kit and opens it up to inspect the contents.
“I’ve got a pretty thick head. I don’t think a sewing needle will penetrate.”
Again, I get a brief glimpse of a smile, the curve of her mouth inspiring a more determined pulse from my dick.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Maybe I’m dealing with more than concussion. I must have brain damage. If not, Decker will soon ensure I do.
But not even the thought of being pummeled to a pulp can deter me from being consumed by her. She’s mesmerizing. From the swell of her lips, to the gentle sweep of her waist, along with everything in between and surrounding.
She isn’t merely beautiful. She’s beauty itself.
“I need a chair to get a better vantage point.” She raises to the tips of her toes. “I can’t see properly from here.”
I don’t hesitate to kneel before her. I want her to know she’s in charge. There’s no threat from me.
For long seconds she peers down at me, as if understanding the underlying message in my submission. Her tension eases another notch. Her muscles lose their rigidity.
I win another square in this back and forth board game of ours.
“I’m not the best at this.” She pulls a needle and thread from the tiny cardboard packet. “I’ve had to give stitches a time or two, but I’m not entirely sure what I’m meant to be doing.”
“I trust you.”
She pauses, the dark depths of her eyes seeming tortured by my admission.
“Just try your best. I can promise you, whatever the result, it will be ten times better than the hack job your brother would give me.”
The mention of her brother snaps her out of the contemplation. Her discomfort returns tenfold.
She backtracks to the sink, cleans the sewing needle with the liquor, then returns to pour the liquid over my wound, bringing another slap of pain-induced clarity.
A wet path trails down my neck, my chest, my back. For all I know, I look like an oiled-up stripper on ladies’ night. But I remain on my knees, keeping silent as she begins to tentatively stitch my wound.
“Tell me if you need me to stop.”
“I’m good.” I actually want her to quit being gentle and just slaughter the ever-loving fuck out of my skull. Her delicate fingers are only causing more issues. The soft brush of her touch is enough to make me twitch. “Does Tobias always float like that?”
She nods. “He could lay there for hours. And some days, he does. I think it’s his form of meditation.”
I lower my voice. “Does he know what happened?”
Her stitching ceases, her fingers paused on my scalp.
“He knows.” She leans back to give me a pointed look. “I told him his father’s death was an accident. That despite how confident and capable Luther was with a gun, it didn’t matter when he stumbled around the edge of the sofa and fell.” She shrugs. “He knows his father shot himself with his own gun.”
I keep my mouth shut, not wanting to dissolve the cease-fire between us by telling her that story won’t hold up for long. Once the shock wears off, the kid is going to realize there were too many gunshots for an accident. It was a fucking battlefield out there.
Then again, maybe that’s her plan—to appease Tobias’s concerns while he’s here, but make him question Cole later.
“What about Chris?” I mouth.
Her face hardens. “He knows the truth about Chris, too.”
I raise a brow, silently asking what truth she’s referring to.
“I told him I killed Chris.” She returns to her stitching, tugging the thread harder than necessary, not subtle at all in her request to cut the topic of conversation.
I don’t push any further. We’ve come a long way in the last hour.
I’ve seen her hope and glimpsed the tiniest bit of her trust.
I won’t fuck that up.
“I think I’m done.” She leans in, inspecting her handiwork. “I just need to cut the thread.”
I bow my head, giving her closer access. “Just use your teeth.”
Her breathing hitches. It’s only subtle. The barest hint of sound. And I can’t help wishing I could hear it in a different context. From pleasure, not fear.