Page 132 of Remy

I grab the staple gun and confirm it’s stocked. “You might want to take another drink before I do this next part.”

“I’m good.”

He doesn’t sound like it. Not at all.

I cave and glance up to meet his gaze.

His head is slightly inclined toward mine, the wisps of his dark blond hair falling to frame tortured eyes.

I clear my throat and focus back on the exit wound, tackling the harder of the two injuries first. I pinch the skin around the opening, struggling to draw the flesh together at first. “Tell me about the boy.” I poise the staple gun over the join I’ve created, my request probably not the best topic to distract from the impending pain. “What happened?”

He makes a noise. A low grumble.

“Come on. You don’t have to tell me everything. Only what you’re comfortable with.” I press the trigger.

He flinches, but that’s it. There’s no hiss of breath. No curse. Just the slightest recoil as his skin is punctured. “There isn’t much to tell. I was taking Flynn to get dinner.”

I pinch more flesh together and prepare for another staple.

“We were walking from the building,” he says on a rasp.

“This building?” I pull the trigger, inspiring another sedated flinch.

“Yeah. But don’t worry. You’re safe. I wouldn’t have brought you here otherwise. I’ve got men on watch.”

I nod away the fear, stowing it in the back of my mind to deal with later.

“We were side by side on the footpath,” he continues. “One minute, he was cracking jokes about his latest prank—the next, bullets rain, and he’s on the ground covered in blood.”

I pull the staple trigger, hoping my attempt to distract him from physical pain isn’t increasing his emotional suffering.

“They shot him in the chest.” His voice cracks. “Twice. The kid didn’t stand a chance.”

I release the trigger one more time, closing the exit wound. “You did a good thing, letting him live with you.”

He scoffs as I grab the middle of the entry wound to pull the skin together. “I told myself the same thing when I first invited him into my home. But I was kidding myself. I dragged him into a life far more dangerous than the one he had living on the street. If it wasn’t for me he’d still be alive.”

“You don’t know that.” I release another staple into his flesh while he takes a gulp of liquor. “Life is fickle. People die suddenly all the time. Healthy, happy people. From the most inane things. I see it every week. And that’s for those lucky enough to have a roof over their head.” I pinch more flesh. Repeat the same process. “Living on the street isn’t something a lot of people survive. He could’ve starved. He could’ve frozen to death. He could’ve?—”

“But he didn’t. He was gunned down by my enemies. Because of my actions. This is on me.”

I don’t know what else to say to ease his guilt, so I focus on distraction. “Was he a drug user? I noticed the cocaine on the coffee table when I came in. Or maybe those lines are yours…”

He doesn’t answer as I remain poised to inflict another staple.

I wait a few seconds, and still, nothing. There’s only the feel of his gaze on the back of my neck, so deeply engrained the energy flutters all the way down my spine.

I don’t want to look at him again, don’t want to succumb.

But like always, I fall victim to Remy. I drag in a shallow breath and raise my gaze, immediately drowning in a sea of him.

“I don’t do drugs,” he murmurs. “Neither did Flynn. But I appreciate you being here even though you think I’m a monumental piece of shit.”

I don’t think that.

God, I wish I did.

I clear my throat and return my attention to the wound, pinching, stapling.

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