“Look, I don’t know what you think you’re going to get out of me—” he started, then let out a low, startled sound when I kneeled in front of him and yanked his shirt up. He started to struggle, and I shifted, pinning his legs with a knee across his thighs and wrenching his arms above his head.
Maybe he realized that from this position I couldn’t really do much with my cock, or maybe he noticed that I was running my fingers along the shitty stitch job I’d done earlier. His reaction said he’d probably had to deal with the uglier side of someone pinning him down before. I could have told him I didn’thaveto rape people to get my dick wet.
But I was too fascinated with what I was seeing.
I’d noticed his scars before when I was patching him up, but we’d been out in the open then, and I was more concerned with making sure he didn’t lose his guts than looking him over.
Now that we were here, my eyes roamed across his well-toned stomach, down the cut of his hips.
There were scarseverywhere. Long, deep gashes across his ribs, tiny white dots over his hips. When my eyes drifted up to meet his, I noticed them on his face too.
Across his lips, bisecting his brow.
He was a patchwork piece of art—miles of tan skin and scars that told the tale of how much he apparently wanted to die.
For someone who said they had bad luck, it looked like he’d gotten away with more shit than most people could survive.
“Fuck, you’re harder to kill than you look, aren’t you?”
Aubrey’s eyes were dark and watchful as he looked me over. His entire body was still one long, lean line of tension that made his muscles bunch and his shoulders shake where I had them extended. “Yeah, probably tough meat. Hard to swallow.”
I laughed then, an abrupt sound that took me by surprise. “Don’t worry, Killer. That’s not the way I’d eat you.”
He opened his mouth to answer and let out a low hiss instead when I leaned over and grabbed a bottle of the swill Blythe’s brother Zero cooked up as alcohol sometimes. It wasn’t exactly the best antiseptic, but it was all we had. As the blood on his side washed away, my eyes narrowed.
The wound was already knitting together beneath the stitches. It looked like it was a few days old instead of fresh.
My gaze drifted up to his. “You aren’t immune.”
I’d half thought he was a liar when he said he wasn’tOrder, or at least that he meant he wasn’t anymore after he’d shot his partner.
But those fucking assholes didn’t give anyone tags without testing recruits, and I knew for a fact they’d put a bullet in your brain if you were a carrier.
Pure, they called it.
Special. Elite.
Fucking cult.
“I never said I was.” He tried to pull away from my hand when I ran it over the stitches I’d put into his side again—if I’d known he hadn’t needed them, I wouldn’t have wasted the time. Though…
“You aren’t just a carrier either.” His blood hadn’t looked that dark when I’d wiped it from his side. I didn’t think he was so close to turning that he was more rabid than not. “What are you?”
He stared up at me for a moment before pressing his lips together and cutting his eyes to the side. I could almost see him warring with himself, with the response caught on the back of his tongue. Finally, he turned back to look at me.
“Apparently I’m a dog.” The answer came out low, a little sarcastic, and he writhed beneath me like he was trying to buck me off.
It pissed me off—it made me want to wrap my hands around his throat and strangle him.
It made me want to flip him over on the bed and fuck him.
I settled for sliding until I could straddle him, pinning him in place. He glared up at me, his body tensing when I leaned in and wrapped my fingers aroundhis neck.
“What was that?”
I could feel his pulse pounding beneath my grip, but it didn’t stop him from responding.
“Woof.”
