Page 82 of Overcast

That fucker is jacking around with me lately and not in the way where my hand or a pussy is the accomplice to something more pleasurable.

No, it pricks, prods, and twists my gut because I have to be the cause of more pain to this girl. But I can't get this damn tape that seems to be super-glued to her skin off.

I trail my gaze back to her face, still as peaceful as ever, and I pray to something higher that she’s a heavy ass sleeper.

Unfortunately—for the both of us—she’s not.

In fact, her blue eyes shoot open and, of course, I’m the first thing she lands on.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” I atone mildly. “I tried to get it off gently.” Her face twists, malice etched on her features, before closing off her blues again. Then I make quick work of soaping around her wound to finish up.

Letting her soak for a few more moments, I grab the softest towel I own and make careful work of lifting her out of the tub and wrap it around her.

I get her back on the bed, running back to the closet in the hall to snatch up the First Aid kit, a few pieces of clothes, and hydrogen peroxide. Stormi is motionless on the bed, fast asleep, which convicts me again for being a complete asshole.

I think I earned my Academy Award.

Stuffing a cloth to the side of her body, I need to pour peroxide on that wound. Lucien will be here soon, but I'd feel better if I took care of it now. Inhaling a deep breath, I don't think about it anymore, I pour.

And I don't think I've ever heard her this loud the entire time she's been with me. The liquid bubbles off her flesh, and her eyes gleam in hatred for me.

So much for that trust I had a moment ago.

"I'm sorry." It's all I got, and that hospital visit is still out of the question to give her a better sort of comfort than I ever could.

Lucien was the best I could do. The most discreet option I had without making more of a shitshow that we've already been starring roles in.

Beads of sweat begin to form on her forehead as she clutches the comforter on the bed for dear life. It hurts, it’s portrayed all over her face, and I don’t need to remind myself why.

"I need to do it one more time," I convey, my mouth going dry. Her nostrils flare this time, and those pretty blues slit. "It's either that or die from infection, sweetheart."

She doesn’t need to voice what she’s thinking because I deserve to die from something far worse.

Maybe one day I will, and she can dance on my grave but not until I resolve my sister's attempted assassination. Then maybe I'll let her pick or come up with some diabolical plan to off me.

“You ready?” She averts her gaze from me and focuses on something else in the room.

Anything else but me, which is fine, because I’d rather her not.

I wasn't lying when I told her that I loved her pleas and begging. However, the tables have turned, and they don't have their same luster as they once did.

Hovering the brown plastic bottle, I don't hesitate and dump it over her wound. She muffles the next scream by biting down on her lips, and I make quick work of the dressing while she stares at the ceiling.

I’m actually proud of her for taking it like a champ. I feel as though most women would’ve fought tooth and nail.

“You’re all set,” I voice, carelessly throwing everything back in the metal container of the First Aid kit to get it out of the way. “I’ll get some clothes for you."

One quick visit to my room and I grab a black t-shirt, sweatpants, and boxers. When I arrive back, she hasn’t moved.

“Here. We’ll get these fresh clothes on and—” Her hand reaches out to snatch them from me and—I can’t help it—but the corners of my lips quirk. There's spunk living in that slender and stunning body of hers.

Her head slowly turns to me, routing slender eyes again in my direction.

“You can barely take a bath,” I vouch. “You’re going to need help.” She closes her eyes and fists my clothes in her hand. “I won’t look.”

She doesn’t react.

So, I do what any asshole would do, I climb into bed with her and carefully pin her body to the mattress with my knees on either side of her.

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