“Fuck!” Anger reignites in my veins. I’m furious at the bastards who did this to her, furious at the fact that they got close enough to hurt her. At the same time, I’m furious at myself fornot protecting her… and terrified she might bleed out under my hands.
She winces. “You’re… scared.”
My gaze meets hers, my expression blank. No one has ever said that to me. Not if they wanted to keep breathing.
“Stay still,” I snap, more to myself than her. “I have to remove the bullet.”
Her stare burns the side of my head, and her voice comes out soft, almost hazy. “You’re…you’re going to pull it out? Like… with your bare hands?” A nervous laugh bubbles from her throat. “Oh God… ow… I hate this… but… I can’t stop thinking about… you… touching me…” The anesthetic must be working already.
Grabbing the antiseptic, I pour a little on a fresh gauze. “This will sting.” My eyes meet hers, but she doesn’t seem to register what I’ve just said, lost in whatever anesthesia-induced daydream she’s in.
She screams as I wipe the edges of the wound, kicking her legs against the counter. “It hurts.”
My hand clenches around the gauze. This is my fucking fault. This was never supposed to happen to her…and it just shows how deep whatever virus has eaten into my mafia.
After a while, she speaks again. But your hands…why do they feel…warm? And…scary? And…wait…hot?” Her words dissolve into a giggle-gasp. “So, so hot…I hate it. No, I like it.”
Ignoring her babble, I grab the forceps from the side table and sanitize them with the antiseptic. Then I press a hand against her torso and grip the bullet with the forceps. Her face twists as I pull slowly. Fortunately, it isn’t lodged deep, but it’s still close enough to sensitive muscles. One wrong move and I could do worse damage than the shooter.
She gasps, her nails scratching my arm. And my damn cock betrays me, hardening at the sound. Fuck! I shouldn’t be turned on by a woman bleeding in my bathroom.
“Ouch. That really hurts.” Her brows crease as she looks down at her arm. “Why do you like hurting me?”
Her question hits a part of my chest I didn’t know still worked, and I swallow down the guilt.
She pauses for a moment, trembling slightly. “My parents…they weren’t nice. My dad…my stepmom… they…made me feel like nothing.” She shivers, her hand twitching slightly. “I…I hated myself. I…I almost…I tried…” Her words falter, and I notice her hands trembling against mine.
“Melanie…she…she saw me once. I was hurting myself, and she didn’t care. She didn’t even bat an eye.” She swallows hard, then her voice becomes more reflective. “And my sister…we…weweren’t close. She had her own world, her own friends…and I guess I always felt…alone.”
Silence swallows the space between us, and all that is left is the sound of her slow exhales hitting my face. Like I suspected, she has a nasty relationship with her family. My blood boils at the thought, but I keep myself in check.
“Why?” I ask.
“Dad wanted boys. Instead he had girls. An ugly one and a beautiful one.” She laughs dryly.
I hate that they made her think of herself as ugly, but I don’t say anything.
“Dad said you…You forbade him from speaking to me. That’s…why he attended the Black Rose Gala… to see me. Why…why…won’t you let him see me?”
My brows furrow in confusion. What the fuck is she talking about? If Dean wants to see his daughter, he’s absolutely free to. What he’s not free to do is use her for his bidding, and I made myself clear about that. She’s no longer his bargaining chip.
But she won’t remember anything I’ll say, so I file the conversation away for another time and grab the suture. My fingers brush against her bare skin, and she inhales sharply, thighs clenching subtly around me. It’s clear she has no idea what she’s saying or doing as she continues her jumbled words.
“You…your hands…they’re…I don’t…oh God…”
“You’re terrifying. Why am I even letting you do this?!”
“I…I hate you. And not hate. Shit.”
The needle pierces her skin, causing her to jerk slightly. Her body reacts to every touch, every brush, and I feel it. That heat crawls up my chest, choking me. I shouldn’t want this. She’s bleeding and drugged out of her mind, but I’d be damned if I said I didn’t want it. I want to spread her thighs wide and bury myself so deep inside her till she forgets the pain of anything that isn’t me.
She keeps rambling to fill the silence.
My hand involuntarily lingers near the wound longer than necessary when I tie a knot. Her chest rises faster, and she bites her lip to stop a moan.
I press the last stitch into place, but her hands are restless, twitching against mine.
“You…your arm,” she mumbles, voice soft and slurred. Her good hand moves clumsily to my bicep, tracing lazy circles. “Have you ever gotten shot here, too?
