“Easy.”My voice is rough.“You’re good.You’re fine.Come here.”
I guide her down to sit, lowering her carefully like she’s something fragile.Like I didn’t just carve my name into her body.
My long hair sticks to her damp cheek.I brush it away before my brain can stop my hand.She leans into my palm in a way that kills me.
Christ.What the hell did I just do.
She looks up at me, like she’s surprised.“Royal…”
I shake my head once, hard, like I need to jump-start my own sanity.
“Don’t talk yet.”My hand trembles when I tuck another strand of hair behind her ear.“Just breathe.”
She does as I say.
For once.
But her breath is still uneven, shallow little pulls that match the shivers running through her.
Shock.
Not fear.
Aftershock from pain and pleasure twisted too tight.
I drop to my knees in front of her.
Not because I should.
Because I have to.
Her blood is on my tongue.On my hands.On my blade still lying on the floor where I dropped it.
And I need to fix what I broke before the reality of it hits me too hard.
I grab the old first-aid kit from under the cot, popping it open with one hand.Gauze, wipes, tape.My fingers move fast but not frantic.I’m a man who’s patched up brothers after gunfights.I know wounds.
“Turn,” I say softly.“Let me see.”
She shifts, baring her back to me.The R is clear and brutal and perfect, the crimson lines catching the dim basement light.The rest is jagged and rushed, done in the heat of the moment.Reckless.
Something fierce and possessive surges inside me at the sight.
Something sick and ashamed rises right behind it.
My breath leaves in a slow exhale.
“Does it hurt?”I ask.
Her answer is quiet.“Not in the way you think.”
My chest tightens.I don’t ask her to explain.
I only leave her to go to the sink.Come right back and press a warm cloth to the cut.She flinches, just barely, but she doesn’t pull away.The blood smears under my touch, staining my fingers again.
“Becki…” I swallow hard.My voice cracks in a way I hate.“I went too far.”
“You didn’t.”
