Page 75 of Irrevocably

“No,” I say. “Too many questions and too many eyes.”

She nods and then lets out a sigh of relief, all the tension leaving her body. “Oh my God, that’s much better.”

I take this as confirmation the nerve blocker has worked, so then I go about the business of treating her finger. I irrigate the wound then grab some thread and a needle. There’s a small flap of skin just above her first knuckle, so I use that to seal the wound and sew it shut.

As I hold her hand in mine, she leans against my shoulder, her breath warm and soft against my ear. My chest aches at the way she’s melted into me, the way she let me care for her without question, as if I’m someone familiar and trusted, and not someone who just killed a whole factory full of people.

“You’re good at that,” she observes sleepily, watching me stitch her wound.

“I’ve had practice.”

“You said you’ve sewn yourself up. Why? What happened?”

“Nothing major.” I keep my reply casual. “A couple of bullets that went astray.”

“Is that where your scars came from?”

I have to work to keep my hand steady as I stitch her, to not let that question jolt me from the inside out. No one asks me about those scars. No one has ever been interested enough, not that I’d tell them in any case.

Those scars are the price of Enzo’s justice, and I don’t discuss that with anyone.

“Yes,” I lie, since that’s the easiest answer.

“No, they’re not,” she says, her voice still sleepy. “If they were, you’d have had to sew your own back up and you can’t, silly.”

Silly. She calls me silly. She must really be in shock.

“You’re right,” I say carefully. “I didn’t sew those ones up.”

“So, where did they come from, then?” She shifts so her chin is on my shoulder, and I can feel her gaze on me. “Or are you not going to answer again?”

I focus on the thread I’m pulling tight, being careful with her soft skin. “They’re just scars, Tinkerbell.”

“Scars covered in ink.” She shifts so her cheek is resting against my shoulder instead of her chin. “What’s with all the tattoos?”

I’m looking down at what I’m doing, stitching neatly and precisely, and I don’t want to answer her questions. There are too many old graves in my past that I don’t want her digging up. Then again, I can answer this one. She might like the answer after all. “A reminder that pain can be beautiful,” I say, making another small stitch. “That it can be art.”

She sighs. “You’re crazy. I love it.”

I glance at her, the soft curve of her cheek, her pale lashes framing the grey of her eyes. They’re crystalline almost and soft as rain clouds. She smiles. “They’re beautiful,” she says. “And so are you.” The look she’s giving me is like summer rain, too. Soft, gentle, cool on my skin. She’s the beautiful one, not me.

I’ve never wanted gentleness or care, and have never felt the lack, either. But right now, I’m wondering what it would be like to be cared about and cared for by her.

She wanted to give her life for her friend. What if she felt that strongly for me? I have imagined so many things with her, and I can’t keep doing it. The only thing worse than hope is knowing that there is no hope at all.

So, I turn away, direct my attention to finishing what I’m doing. “There’s nothing beautiful about me, Tinkerbell. I’m a killer, remember?”

“A killer with very neat stitches,” she says, not picking up on what she’s doing to me or how she’s making me feel. “I’m starting to get cold, though.”

“I know,” I say. “Just let me finish this and I’ll find you something warm.”

A couple of minutes later, her finger is done, and I take her back into the living area, settle her on the couch with a blanket, a glass of water and some strong painkillers. She takes them without a word, swallowing them down with the water.

I watch her, my brain returning to its usual examination of my own failings, at how I took her out of that factory, ignoring everyone and everything in favour of getting her somewhere safe and tending to her wounds. At how I keep trying to lie to myself that I’m just protecting my target, my source. That it’s not about how she’s more to me than that.

And she can’t be.

I already made that decision back at the cabin, earlier in the evening. That I would get what I needed from her and then get her out of my life. But I’ve done the opposite. I rescued her and far from getting her out my life, I’ve taken her back here, to my family’s property, which no one is supposed to know about.