He dropped his head for a moment, then glanced back up at me. “I think the song likes you, too.”
I smiled and sat on the floor in front of him to remove his bandage. The song continued to play in the background. “There’s a projector here. Since the record player is working, maybe that will work too. You could watch films.”
“Films?”
“You know, movies? There are tons of reels. Movies I haven’t seen in ages. I’m sure you can figure it out,” I said, cleaning him and trying to keep my focus on the stitches and not the tight lines of his torso or the way a light trail of hair dipped inside his pants, leading to places I’d only imagined.
“I need to keep this under control.”
I didn’t know if I meant the wound or myself.
Both were very accurate at the moment.
Stone remained silent, and I felt him watching me.
I was used to men admiring me, but it was different with Stone.
His eyes looked right through me—penetrating me, almost as if he could see the evil embroidering my soul. And I wanted him to see so I wouldn’t be burdened with it alone. I wanted him to understand that I was kind but also capable of killing for the greater good. I wanted him to know that despite the small moments we found ourselves lost in, if he ever crossed me or threatened my home, I could slit his throat. I needed him to see the wicked starvation inside me and understand it. This way, there wouldn’t be a shocked look in his eyes should it ever come to his death. There wouldn’t be anything. Just the usual quiet desperation he always wore. Like he’d known it was coming all alongbecausehe understood me. And he could lay there the same way Kane would one day, blood pulsing from his throat with every last slow beat of his heart. But with Stone, I would lay with him, my head against my secret’s chest, his blood oozing down the sides of my face. Maybe even read him to sleep one final time. Because … he saw me, and I let him.
“What?” I asked, catching his eyes still on me while I was lost in crimson thoughts. I applied an herb-crushed ointment to his wound, a recipe from Blackwell Apothecary, pretending to be aloof, all together, and not a mess.
Stone touched my arm with his gloved hand, stopping me.
“Why did you do it?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Why did you agree to bring me here?”
I shrugged, but the truth was, I wanted to hide him, to hang on to him for a bit longer. Bone Island seemed the perfect place to keep him, just to prove I could. The sea had returned a piece of me I’d lost so long ago—an adventure in the shape of a man. It made me feel alive during desolate times, and I wanted to see what would become of it.
“Circe.” His hand cupped my elbow, demanding my attention. I bit my lip and focused on his wrists, the blue veins popping under his skin. When I lifted my gaze to him, he moved in closer with eyes that looked deep into my own. “Thank you.”
It was the first time he’d thanked me. I could tell it was hard for him to do and how sincere he was because when I looked into his black eyes, they went on indefinitely.
He remained still. Stone carved from stone.
A thickness filled the room, and our gazes knotted together. A bridge between us. Almost as if neither one of us could break away from the connection.
If it were anyone else, I would have been able to pull away long ago.
If it were anyone else ...
My hand fell from his torso, and my finger brushed the top hem of his pants. A pinch of pain rushed through me from my fingertip to my shoulder.
I winced and yanked back my hand.
The area surrounding the splinter in my finger was red and agitated.
“You’re hurt.” Stone reached for my hand.
I pulled back. “It’s nothing.”
He was forceful, snatching my wrist and turning my palm so he could have a look. It was odd in the way he did it. Blunt.
“It seems we’re both infected.” He ran his fingertips lightly over my scabs, then back up my finger. With a dry throat, he continued, “If you don’t remove it, the infection will only get worse.”
I shrugged. “I like the pain.”
