“Don’t let go,” I tell her.
She chuckles softly, and the next thing I know, her hands are under me, and she’s walking us to the bed once again. I hang on, only adjusting myself when she’s sitting down against the headboard.
I like resting on her like this—entirely spent, my ear against her chest to hear her heartbeat. And as I lay there and bring her hand into mine, I’m reminded of the first promise I ever made her.
I trace IOU into her palm, and Gemma squeezes my hip when I pull back.
“Can I carve my promise into your hand?” I softly ask her.
Gemma swallows. “Carve out my heart if you want it,” she whispers.
I bend sideways and take the stashed knife and lighter out of the drawer of the nightstand. Her eyes fix on me as I move off of her lap and kneel in front of her now criss-crossed legs. I pass the blade through the flame to sanitize it, and when I take her hand into mine, our gazes meet with the first cut.
Her skin breaks—the depth barely more than a practiced graze. Blood beads atop the marks, her fingers flinching slightlydepending on where I cut. More than once, she sucks air through her teeth, though she never recoils or protests.
As I finish the last letter, I quickly get off the bed, run into the bathroom for a towel and the alcohol, and then return to find her staring at her hand as if it’s hitting her that I just carved a promise into her skin.
“IOU,” she says, looking at me.
“Because I owe you my life,” I say. “I do, Gemma. I owe you my heart… my body… my forever. And I’ll spend all the time we have together paying you back for everything you’ve given me.”
Her gaze softens. “I don’t want payment,” she whispers. “I just want you.”
I gently kiss her lips. “You can have me, too.”
Only a few drops of blood landed on the sheets. Even so, Gemma insists we wash her hand and pour the alcohol on it over the sink so as to not ruin anything else. And despite me telling her she’s the one who should be used to bloody messes by now, she still eyes me and smacks my ass until we’re standing in front of the sink.
“This bandage job is going to be shit, just so you know,” I say when I’m wrapping the gauze around her hand. “Mads is the one skilled at bandages. Mine usually turn out to be trash.”
She snickers. “Liam actually has a nursing degree,” she says. “He is the one in our group that takes care of this kind of thing.”
My brows raise. “No shit, really?”
“Yeah. It’s come in handy after a few jobs,” she replies. “The old ladies used to love him when he worked in the nursing home right out of college.”
I chuckle at the thought of big ole Liam helping some fragile older woman down the hallway. “I can only imagine.”
I bring her palm to my lips once it’s taped off and secure, and she smiles softly at me.
“Permission to scar you as mine,” she whispers, her thumb dragging over my forearm.
I extend my hand to her, and she shakes her head.
“I’m not cutting your hand,” she argues. “Your hands are your life. And you can’t record if you can’t play. I’m not putting your career or health in jeopardy for this. So, you can get that pretty little pout off your lips.”
Ugh.
I hate that she’s right.
“Fine,” I succumb. “You can put it over my heart then,” I say as I pull her fingers to my chest. “That’s where I want to keep you.”
She leads me back to the bedroom after cleaning the blade and grabbing a spare clean towel. I relax against the headboard, her thighs straddling over me. I run my hands up her legs as she preps me, and as I do, I note the scars on her thighs again.
Scars that look like the ones I’ve tried to hide under the bold tattoos on my arms.
My heart begins to ache—and not only because the knife presses to my chest. I inhale a jagged breath, feeling her stiffen slightly when I run my thumb over one that appears relatively fresh.
“Do you remember the first time you did it?” I ask.
