“Shirt off,” he says as I sit. “We start with the upper arms for Siphon kill marks.”
A prickle of unease starts somewhere in my gut, but I don’t protest. I just peel off the filthy garment. The cloth is stiff and reeks of dried blood, and my stomach turns as the smell hits me again, hard. I swallow hard.
Stark’s gaze flicks over my bound chest as he draws his chair closer. At least my undergarments are relatively clean.
He has to sit unnervingly close, big hand warm on my arm as he steadies me for the needle.
I must smell terrible. Like death and battle. But if it bothers him, he shows no sign.
Stark’s familiar scent fills my head as the needle bites into my flesh. The pain is a relief after the past twenty-four hours.
The little tent is unnervingly quiet. Most of the camp is still sleeping. The stillness of the dawn and the weight of last night’s interrogation lie over us like a blanket, creating an air of raw intimacy that sets my heart thumping.
Stark’s touch is clinical as he works, but I know he feels the charge in the air. How could he not?
What I don’t know is why the fuck it’s there, or what to do to dispel it.
As though hearing my thoughts, Stark breaks the silence.
“I’ve never seen anyone interrogate with that kind of intensity before,” he says. “It’s clear this mission was personal for you.”
The observation—and the lack of censure in his voice, after what he saw me do—catch me off guard.
Maybe it’s the vulnerability of the moment, the hypnotic rhythm of the needle in my skin, or simple exhaustion, but I find myself telling him… everything.
The words come with quiet intensity.
I tell more about him why I joined the army in the first place, my mission to find Saela, how I thought I’d be able to find her if I could just get to the front line and across the border.
Then I pause, filled with sickening defeat.
“She’s been gone three months,” I rasp, voice breaking just a little. “Three months, Stark. She turned eleven two months ago, in captivity. If she’s even still alive.”
The needle pauses on my skin. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Stark’s head lift, his gaze moving to my face. I tell myself notto look—I feel like I’ve just bared my fucking soul to him, and I’m not sure what I’m going to see in his eyes.
But for some reason, I can’t stop my head from turning.
Our gazes lock. His eyes are dark, impenetrable. There’s something there, lurking behind that signature stoicism, but I can’t read it.
“I really thought this would lead to something,” I say. “That we might find her at the temple. Or at least get some hints for where to look next. But instead I tortured thatthinglast night—behaved like a total monster, almost like I’m one of them—and still, nothing.”
We’re both still staring at each other, and I’m drowning in his eyes, waiting for him to say something, tell me if I’m a villain for what I did. He sighs, his breath hot against my arm.
“Don’t let it get to you,” he says, his voice tight. “We’ve all had to do things we aren’t proud of. Just remember why you did what you did.”
When he finally looks away, I realize my throat is burning. I suck in a breath, feeling like I’ve been released from some kind of spell.
Stark finishes my tattoos without another word exchanged between us. But I’m still raw. The sense of intimacy lingers, setting my nerves on edge.
Making my blood pulse in my ears.
When he finally leans down to lick the wounds on my arms, I get a rush of arousal so intense my breath catches in my throat.
A sound escapes me, low and unmistakably erotic.
Fuck!
Stark’s eyes lock onto mine. The hunger in them steals the breath right out of my lungs—sends adrenaline coursing through my veins.
