“Not until you hear me out,” he says, pulling off his t-shirt and pressing it against the wound. “That’s all I ask. Please.”
“I don’t owe you anything.”
“I know,” he agrees, “but I’m asking you anyway.”
Goddamn this man. He’s towering over me, holding the bloody t-shirt against his shoulder but not moving a muscle.
“Fine,” I hiss. “Come into the bathroom. I don’t want you bleeding all over my bedroom floor.”
The bright lights in my bathroom show how exhausted he looks, dark circles under his eyes and his wide shoulders are slumped.
“You look like shit,” I blurt.
“Most likely,” he agrees, standing a careful distance away from me.
Angrily pulling out my med kit - only an idiot comes to the Ares Academy without a well-stocked first aid kit - I nod at the granite counter. “Lean against that. I don’t want you passing out and having to bandage you while you’re unconscious. You’re heavy as fuck.”
He looks like he’s holding back a smile, but Konstantin nods, resting his ass against the counter. Pulling away the bloody t-shirt, I note the cut is fairly deep.
“You’re going to need stitches,” I say sourly. “Do you want to go to Dr. Giardo? I don’t have any Lidocaine.”
Rolling his eyes, Konstantin scowls. “Just do it. Please,” he amends as he sees my expression.
“You get your chance to talk while I’m sewing you up,” I said, “then you’re getting the fuck out of my place.” Eyeing the needle as I thread it carefully, I try to remember my sister-in-law Ella’s instructions. As our Bratva’s physician, she’s used enough thread stitching wounds to create a quilt the size of a football field.
Cleaning the cut, I pinch the ends together and take my first stitch. It doesn’t look good, but fuck him. It’s quiet in the room, I can hear his soft breathing on my shoulder as he watches my work, not even flinching when I dig the needle in a little too deep. I hate this. He’s too close. His chest is a map of scars and tattoos and taut, tanned skin over beautifully sculpted muscles, and his biceps are wider than my thigh.
“You should start talking,” I said, “I’m halfway through.”
“Will you look at me?” Kon asks quietly.
My hands pause as I take a deep breath. I don’t want to look at him.
“Please?” he persists.
Pressing my lips together, I glance up. His gaze is clear and direct. And remorseful. What a good actor.
“I am sorry,” he said quietly. “I was a fucking asshole, getting angry at you after you saved my life. And for waiting too long to apologize and leaving you open to all that gossip.”
I pull a little too hard on the thread and wince, but he doesn’t even blink.
“Tansey grabbed onto my arm that day, claiming she was going to fall off her high heels,” he continued. “I was attempting to be polite but I should have been smarter.” He tilts his head, tryingto catch my gaze again. “I think you know better than to think I’d ever willingly touch her, right?”
“Not according to the stories around campus,” I said dryly, trying to make the next stitch look less like a kindergartener playing with yarn. “The latest one has her pregnant with your triplets.”
Now, he flinches.
I finish my stitches in silence, tongue poking between my lips as I concentrate. When I tie off the last one, it looks like I sewed him up in the back of a speeding truck in a gravel pit. While drunk.
“You’re done,” I said, trying to breathe shallowly. I don’t want to smell him. His cologne. How he smells like pine trees and home. Like warm skin and clean cotton.
Shrugging his shoulders carefully, he looks at my botched job in the mirror. “Thank you.”
Raising one eyebrow, I shake my head. “You must really be sorry if you’re willing to thank me for that.” He smiles, and damn him, it looks sincere. I turn away from him. “So, you need to leave now.”
“Before I go, I would like you to see a couple of things,” he said, straightening up off the counter and stretching painfully.
“Why should I bother?” I said. “Why areyoubothering? You know there’s nothing we can do to change our future.”
