Page 61 of When She Loves
She darts her hand out and wraps it over my knee before giving me the smallest of nods. “Do it.”
I bring the needle closer and pierce her skin. She winces but keeps breathing deeply like I told her to.
“Good girl,” I murmur. “Just keep breathing.”
The pace of her breathing speeds up. Her fingernails dig into my leg, but I don’t show any sign of pain. If she needs to use me as her stress ball, she’s more than welcome to do it.
I work as fast as I can to sew her up. It only takes me about ten minutes before I’m snipping the last thread.
I put everything away on the nightstand. “All done.”
Slowly, she peels her eyes open. “Thanks.”
What is she thanking me for? “I’m the one who got you into this mess.”
She stares at me and swallows. “It wasn’t your fault,” she says. “Don’t blame yourself. I forced your hand by showing up to dinner in that dress. If I hadn’t, we would have been driven by Sandro, and the hitmen probably wouldn’t have attacked if the restaurant had been filled with other patrons.”
I place my hand over hers and lace our fingers together. “I liked that dress.”
Surprise slips into her expression before it morphs into wry amusement. “Admit it, you’re glad it’s ruined.”
“Not at all.” She looked sexy as hell in it. “I’ll buy you a replacement, and next time, you’ll wear it in the privacy of our own home.” I lean closer. “Without anything beneath it.”
Finally, some color returns to her cheeks.
The door opens, and Doc reappears. “How are we doing?”
The simmering tension around us bursts like a balloon. I let go of her hand and stand.
“Take a look.”
He comes over to examine my work and then gives me a pleased nod. “Good. The concussion is my main concern. I’d like to keep an eye on her for the next few days.”
“Keep your phone close. If her condition worsens, I want you on hand.”
“Very well.” He leaves and shuts the door behind him.
I drag my fingers through my hair. I need a shower, a strong drink, and a good eight hours of sleep, but for now, I’ll settle on just the first. I unbutton my shirt and toss it in the hamper.
Cleo gasps. “You’re hurt too.”
I glance down. It takes me a moment to realize she’s talking about my arm. There’s a shallow wound where a bullet grazed me on my biceps, but I barely feel it. “It’s a scratch.”
“Let me see,” she demands stubbornly. “Come here, or I’m going to come over to you.”
“Stay still,” I growl.
It really is nothing. The only annoying thing is that the cut bisected one of my tattoos. A dark, hooded figure levitating over a bed of bones.
My father.
Cleo’s eyes roam the wound and the image beneath it. “Your tattoo is ruined.”
I shrug. “Adds character, don’t you think?”
“Do you need me to stitch you up?”
“I think you might cause more damage than the bullet.”
