Page 131 of Remy

“You can help by gently pouring antiseptic on the wound.” I kill the water and pat my hands dry on a non-sterile towel, defeating the purpose of the last two minutes of scrubbing.

He does as I ask, opening the antiseptic to douse it excessively over his thigh.

I hiss in a breath, empathizing with the pain it must cause, but Remy doesn’t react. “Go easy.” I grab the bottle from him, my fingertips eliciting an unwanted tingle at our brief contact. “Let me handle it from here.”

“This isn’t my first rodeo.”

“No?” I splash my hands with antiseptic, then focus on the bullet wound. “How many times have you been shot?”

“This is my maiden voyage in that regard, but my brother stabbed me in the opposite thigh not too long ago.”

I pause, momentarily stunned at how casually he explains the familial violence. “Salvatore stabbed you?”

“No. It was Matthew. Don’t worry though. I deserved it.”

“I don’t doubt it.” I suck in a strengthening breath and creep closer, positioning myself between his spread knees, the proximity drying my mouth. “I’m going to touch you now.”

I pause, anticipation thudding in my chest, butterflies erupting in my tummy.

He’s so composed. Sedate.

I’m the opposite. Every nerve sensitive. Every heartbeat frantic.

I sweep my fingertips over antiseptic-covered skin, the contact tingling all the way up my arm.

His thigh tenses.

I snap my gaze to his. “If I hurt you?—”

“You won’t,” he cuts me off.

“But if?—”

“You won’t, Ollie. Just do what needs to be done.”

I swallow over the ache in my throat and nod.

I lean down, taking a closer look at the wound. The entry is almost perfectly circular. A small, round hole. The exit—a few inches around the side of his thigh—is slightly bigger, with ragged edges.

“I like that you don’t get squeamish around blood,” he murmurs.

“I don’t think I was ever allowed the luxury, given my parents’ work.” I hold out a hand as I scan both wounds for debris. “Tweezers?”

He scrounges through his supplies and passes over a pair, his touch lingering in my palm until I drag my hand away.

He drinks liquor while I drag threads of material from inside his thigh. Not many. Just a few. And I ignore the way my neck tingles from his attention peering down at me.

“So tell me,” I ask, “what actions were deserving of you being stabbed by your own brother?”

“None you’d find endearing.”

I ignore the heat unfurling beneath my ribs, unsure if endearing himself to me is his aim, and equally uncertain if I want it to be. “I’m not surprised. If I was the gambling type I’d make a bet that you save all your charm for those random text messages you send me.”

“The tone of the texts is necessary to create a plausible backstory for our contact.”

“So they weren’t true?” I try to sound casual. Flippant. I’m not sure I pull it off.

“I didn’t say that.” He falls silent, his attention confounding.

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