Page 127 of Remy

I focus on keeping my gaze on his leg. To not look up at him even though his eyes burn a heated trail over my face. “This is ridiculous.” I pull harder, ripping the fabric barely half an inch. “I need to take you to a hospital.”

“I don’t do those either,” he murmurs.

I purge a frustrated huff and drop my arms back to my sides. “So you plan on bleeding out?”

“If that’s what karma dictates.”

“Oh, okay.” I roll my eyes and glare up at him, ignoring how his dejected stare makes me weak. “Just for clarity’s sake, will disposing of you in the retort earn me another twenty grand, because if so, I might need you to call out to your men to return the gurney.”

He doesn’t laugh.

I guess the comedy festival is over.

“Come on. At least let me get you into the prep room.” I grab his wrist. “I’m not a surgeon by any means but?—”

“No.” He drags his arm toward his chest, my grip on his wrist tugging me toward him. “I’m not spilling any more blood here for my men to take care of. I’ll clean myself up at home.”

I let go as he turns in his seat, raises his feet into the car, then grabs the steering wheel. But all he does is sit there, staring out the windshield to the closed double doors.

I’ve witnessed that far-off stare enough times to recognize it for what it is.

Grief has him by the throat.

“Why don’t you let me drive you?” I whisper.

“Why not just wait to see if I die?”

Because the thought of losing him hurts for some reason.

Because he’s made me grow attached to him, if even from a distance.

“You’ve saved my life twice already. And believe it or not, I don’t necessarily enjoy being indebted to a murderous criminal.”

He turns his head and meets my gaze, drowning me in his sorrow.

“Please, Remy.”

His hands tighten around the steering wheel. “Don’t fucking beg me, Pyro. I’m not in a state to deny you.”

“Then don’t. Let me drive you home. I’ll help clean you up. I know a thing or two about stitching wounds.”

He sighs, bone-weary and lax.

“Come on.” I hold out a hand, praying he’ll take it. “I’m itching to slide behind the wheel of a luxury vehicle.”

Those eyes search mine for long, silent seconds until finally he shifts.

He doesn’t take my hand, but that’s okay, because he climbs from the car, forcing me to sidestep as he unfurls his large frame to stand towering before me.

He reaches into his pocket, pops the trunk, then shuffles to the back of the car to retrieve a black blanket, returning moments later. “For the blood.” He leans into the car to lay it down on the driver’s seat. “I don’t want you sitting in the mess I’ve made.”

Forever the chivalrous murderous gentleman.

“Thank you.” The appreciation is stupid. I’m thanking a criminal for sparing my clothes after a lethal encounter. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. But that’s what he does—makes me an idiot.

“Let’s get out of here.” He makes his way around the car, favoring his left leg.

My insides churn for him. For the teenage boy. For whatever they went through.

---