Page 16 of By Sin To Atone

When he reaches out a hand to brush the hair back from my face, I flinch with the contact of skin. He pauses, holds up a finger, raises his eyebrows. His silent instruction for me to be still. His thumb brushes my jaw before his fingers curl around it and gently, which is absurd that I’d think anything this man does to me is gentle, he tilts my face a little so he can get a better look. I’m sure my makeup has worn off. The ugly, still-angry pink scar that spans my cheek is visible. The Frankenstein-like marks my clumsy stitching left.

His eyes narrow. I tug free of his grasp and give a shake of my head, so my hair falls across my left cheek to hide it at least a little.

He meets my gaze, and I find myself staring into those wolfish eyes again. I can’t read him. But he’s trying to read me. He’s curious about the scar or the stitching, probably. Anyone who sees it stares. That’s why I wear such heavy makeup. Well, that and so my dad doesn’t find me. He has friends on the street keeping an eye out for a woman with a hideous scar across her face. Think Bride of Frankenstein.

I’m trying to come up with a smart answer for when he asks but he surprises me when, instead of asking, he reaches for my hand, the one that’s throbbing, still bleeding.

I hold it out for him to see.

He takes it, brings it between us and turns it this way and that to look at the cut, then meets my gaze with a grin on his face.

“We’ll need to stitch that up. It’s not going to close on its own.”

I nod but stop. Him mentioning stitches is the last thing I expect because what’s he going to do, take me to the ER? I doubt it.

“I need to go to the hospital.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

“But—”

“I’ll do my best. Use all my best sewing skills.” My mouth drops open. “Spoiler, I’m not very good.” He winks as he straightens to his full height, which is well over six feet. I’m only five-feet-two-inches and kneeling before him, well, it’s intimidating.

He grins as if reading my mind.

“You’re not sewing me up,” I say.

“I can’t let you bleed to death, can I?”

I shudder at the way he says it. “What are you going to do to me?”

He holds out his hand, palm up. “I just told you. I’m going to sew that closed. Get up, Blue.”

“I mean… After.”

He shrugs a shoulder. “We’ll talk and what I do next, well, that’ll depend on you. Up. I don’t want you bleeding out.”

I follow his gaze to my hand. I don’t think I’ll bleed out, but it doesn’t look like it’ll close on its own. I don’t take his hand but stand on my own, using the table for balance. It takes a minute for the dizziness to pass once I’m up. The ringing starts. I close my eyes, draw a deep breath in, then slowly exhale.

I need to keep it together. For Wren. He hasn’t killed me yet. He hasn’t hurt me, not really. The damage to my hand is self-inflicted.

“Blue, you with me?”

I open my eyes, nod. I eye my sweats on the floor and when I bend to pick them up, he lets me. I pull them on, wincing at the pain in my hand, not bothering with the stupid snaps of the uniform that rode up my crotch anyway.

He gestures for the door, and I take a clumsy step. He catches my arm.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks.

I swallow, my neck craned to look at him because the top of my head barely comes to his chin.

I try to tug free. “I’m fine.”

“Hm.” He keeps hold of my arm as we walk out of the small room, into the hallway and down the stairs. I take in the dimly lit rooms and all those dust cloths as we make our way into the kitchen. It’s a large, open space with checkered black and white tiles set in a harlequin pattern. A stone island is central with four stools on one side, a stovetop and sink on the other. The driver who brought me here is sitting on one of those stools and from the smell of it, drinking freshly brewed coffee. He’s reading a paper he puts down when he sees us and raises his eyebrows at my captor.

“Dex, if you can head over to the Oakwood Care Cent?—”

“Wait, what?” I cut in, panicked. I step in front of Ezekiel and set my free hand on his chest, not missing how firm and muscled it is. “We’re talking. You said?—”

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