Page 43 of Claimed Through Deception

She sees the vulnerability I hide from the rest of the world.

I shrug off the ruined jacket. It falls to the floor with a wet slap. I grip the hem of my ruined shirt and pull it over my head. I bite back a groan as the fabric peels away from the open wound.

The cut is deep. It runs from my lower ribs toward my hip, an ugly, jagged slash leaking fresh blood down my abdomen.

I sit heavily on the edge of her mattress.

"Do it, Livia," I tell her. "Before I bleed out on your floor."

She doesn't argue again. She steps forward, unzipping the leather kit. Her hands are shaking violently. She pulls out scissors, gauze, a bottle of antiseptic, and the curved suture needle.

She kneels on the floor between my spread legs. Her bare knees brush the fabric of my trousers. Her face is level with my bleeding ribs. The vanilla scent of her skin wages a war against the smell of my blood.

"This is going to burn," she whispers, uncapping the antiseptic.

"Do it."

She presses the soaked gauze to the open wound.

Fire rips through my side. My muscles lock tight. I grip the edge of the mattress, my knuckles turning white, but I do not make a sound.

Livia's face is inches from my chest. I watch the intense concentration in her dark eyes. I watch the way her teeth sink into her lower lip. Her fingers are stained with my blood. She is so delicate, existing in the middle of my violent, ugly reality.

"I have to stitch it," she murmurs. She threads the needle. Her hands are trembling so badly she misses the eye of the needle on the first try.

"Look at me."

She glances up.

"Your hands are steady," I lie. "You have me. Go."

She takes a jagged breath. The needle pierces my skin.

I grit my teeth. The pain is a sharp, but it is eclipsed by the sensation of her touch. Her knuckles brush against my stomach with every pull of the thread. Her erratic breaths fan across my hot skin.

I am addicted to this. I am addicted to the contrast of her gentle hands fixing the damage my ruthless life creates. I want her to patch me up. I want her to own my scars.

She pulls the thread tight. "I'm sorry," she whispers.

"Don't apologize."

"I'm hurting you."

"You are keeping me alive," I correct her.

She lowers her eyes, focusing on the laceration. She works with a slow, meticulous focus. Every movement is careful. She treats my broken flesh with a reverence I do not deserve. I am a man who orders executions. I am a man who bought her out of a jail cell to cage her in my home. Yet here she sits, kneeling on the floor, her hands covered in my blood, stitching me back together.

The intimacy of the act is suffocating.

I watch the curve of her mouth. I remember the taste of her lips in my office. I remember the desperate sounds she made when I touched her. The memory sends a dark, heavy heat straight to my groin, warring with the agonizing throb in my ribs.

Ten minutes pass. They feel like ten hours.

She ties off the final knot and snips the thread with the small scissors.

She leans back on her heels, swiping a bloodstained wrist across her forehead. She leaves a faint red smear on her pale skin. She looks exhausted, beautiful, and completely ruined.

"It's done," she breathes.