Page 25 of White Wings of Desire

"Yeah, but it's not as bad as it looks." I don't believe him; men are all the same, and admitting that something is painful is a sign of weakness. And he certainly can't show weakness, not with his reputation. The gauze is soaked in blood, and the brownish iodine stains are seeping through the fabric. It must be bad.

"Can I take a look?"

"You don't have to." But I ignore him and crawl closer, kneeling at his side. His eyes are glued to me, tracking every move of my hands as I inspect the band-aid.

"Tell me if it hurts." My nails pick at one of the sticky edges. When I get a good grip on the dressing, I gently peel it off, exposing the bright red gash. It's not very deep, but I can see the underlying tissue well through the gaping skin.

"You know you need stitches, right?"

"Yeah, I know." He snorts. "It's just kind of difficult with just one hand." His gaze wanders to the injury before he looks back at me. "Do you want to help me?"

My eyes widen in surprise at his suggestion. "I haven't done it in well over a year. I don't think I'm the right person for it," I say, "Are you sure you want me to do this?"

"It's like riding a bike. Once you learn it, you never forget it. The first few seconds, you may be clumsy, but you’ll get the hang of it." He nods towards the foot of the bed. "My first aid kit is in my bag. Everything you need to patch me up is there."

I nod and slip out of bed. The initial shock of him being in my room has worn off, and I don't really care that he can see me naked. I’ve never been shy about nudity. We’ve also already had sex twice, so I’m past the point of being embarrassed to be seen naked by him. I also shouldn’t forget the little show I put on just for him a few weeks ago. My cheeks heat up at the memory of that night. I have no idea what was going through my mind at the time. I was horny, and I guess I wanted to feel like I had the upper hand for once. After picking up the kit, I climb back into bed next to him.

"Do you need anything to numb the area?" I ask while unzipping the bag and grabbing the small suture kit that holds everything I need: The needle, the surgical thread, and the needle holder. I also grab the small bottle of antiseptic solution and the individually wrapped pieces of sterile gauze.

"Normally, I'd have a glass of whiskey first," he says. "But it's seven in the morning, and I would like to be able to drive back home today."

"So, no numbing?"

"No, go on."

"Then get comfortable," I say, and he does.

He settles into the pillows, tilts his head back, closes his eyes, and focuses on his breathing. His exposed chest rises with each inhale and falls with each exhale.

After thoroughly cleaning the area, I get to work. My tongue darts out of my mouth and sticks between my lips as I push the curved needle through the flushed edges of the gaping wound. His whole body twitches once when the needle breaks through his skin. He grips the sheets tight, his knuckles turning white, but he doesn't pull away even as the thread weaves through his flesh, pulling the gaping wound shut. It takes me a few badly tied knots to get the hang of it, but stitching him back together doesn't take long.

The smooth whisked eggs begin to sizzle the moment I pour the runny liquid into the piping hot pan, turning solid little by little while I stir the mixture with the spatula. The aroma of breakfast, a mix of bacon, scrambled eggs, and freshly brewed coffee, hangs in the air, joined by the smell of cigarettes. I turn to face the dining table where Noah is sitting, now properly dressed in a black turtleneck and matching suit pants.

He is sitting comfortably in one of the old wooden chairs, with a cigarette stuck between his lips and a cup of coffee in his hand. He looks calm and content, as if he wasn't the one who chased me through the woods last night like a starving wolf hunting a frightened deer.

He is a completely changed man compared to the one I was running from. He is still a killer, but he no longer appears to pose even the slightest threat. His eyes are fixed on me, observing every little move I make.

"Can you please stop looking at me like that?" I ask, holding up the spatula and waving it in a daring gesture.

"No, you're just too damn beautiful for me to take my eyes off of you," he says.

My heart jumps in my chest, and I feel a warm flush spread across my cheeks. I turn away from him and focus on the scrambled eggs. Once they are fluffy and done, I set the table for breakfast, including an additional plate for him. Pouring him another cup of coffee, I watch the brown liquid flow into the cup.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." I watch him put out the small remaining cigarette stub in the ashtray. He then lifts the cup to his lips and takes a sip of the steaming hot brown beverage.

"Noah, don't you think we need to talk about some stuff?" After I patched him back together, my alarm went off, interrupting our little doctor game and reminding me that I was in charge of making breakfast today. The only other exchange we've had since we first came downstairs was when he was polite enough to ask me if it was okay for him to smoke inside the house. Other than that, he has been quiet.

"Yes, but not here. Your friends could walk in on us at any moment." He puts down his cup. "We don't want them to find out about your little secret, do we?"

I sigh. He’s right. This isn’t the right place to discuss our situation. Or I guess I could call it a new arrangement. His long fingers curl around my small wrist as I turn away from him, stopping me from walking away. He pulls me back; tripping over my own feet, I land right in his lap, and he wraps his arms around my waist.

"What are you doing?" I ask, getting annoyed with his antics. Looking at him, I expect an answer, but all I get is a soft pucker of his lips, silently asking for a kiss. I really don't understand this man; how can he be so affectionate after everything he has done to me? Nevertheless, I grant him his silent request, leaning in close and planting a soft kiss against his lips.

"You're insane," I whisper, feeling his lips curl into a smile against mine. It's questionable where my confidence comes from to talk to him like that. I should be afraid for my life and come up with a plan to get away from him, not mess around like we are in a relationship. But his calm and domestic behavior is easy to imitate. It feels almost natural.

He doesn't get a chance for a comeback; a choir of high-pitched squeals interrupts the peaceful morning. I jump from his lap, putting some distance between us, and turn to the now open kitchen door where my friends are standing, all still in their nightwear.

---