Page 18 of By Sin To Atone

“I really think it’ll be okay without stitches,” I say, my voice higher as the reality that he will actually sew me up hits.

He puts on the gloves included in the pack, unpacks a disinfecting pad, and gently touches it to the skin around the cut. I wince, sucking in a breath, and, keeping his head bent over his work, he lifts his gaze to mine.

“Drink the whiskey, Blue.”

I shake my head, my breathing shallow, my heart racing. “Just do it. Hurry.” Because I know it’s not going to close on its own and I just need to get through this. I grip the edge of my chair with my free hand and watch him take one of the hooked needles out of its package. “Oh God.”

“Afraid of needles?”

“I’m afraid of you with those needles.”

He smiles and it’s the first genuine smile I’ve seen. It somehow calms me and when he sets my hand on his thigh, I feel a strange sensation deep in my stomach. The movement is intimate. Tender almost.

“Like I said, this will hurt,” he tells me, that same smile morphing into something else, making me shake my head at the direction my thoughts just took.

My eyes are locked on the needle. He’s right about it hurting. It’s going to hurt like fucking hell.

I am sure he doesn’t trust that I won’t pull away instinctively and closes one hand over my wrist. He holds that hand in place as he brings the needle with its suturing thread toward the wound.

“Isn’t there glue or something in there?” I ask panicked, tugging at my hand but unable to pull it out of his grasp.

“Sorry, no,” he says not sounding remotely sorry. He doesn’t bother to look up, and, before I can open my mouth to ask if he’s sure, the needle is in.

I bite my lip so hard I taste blood. Tears sting my eyes, and I can’t help the sound I make when he draws it out of the inside of the wound.

He glances up at me. Grins. “Drink the whiskey.”

I shake my head, trying to stop crying. “Please hurry.”

He gets back to work, and I whimper as he draws the needle out of the other side.

“You have to tie it off first. Then do the next one. You have to tie them off?—”

“Shh.” He begins doing just that and I’m not sure if it’s because he’s watched a video or practiced or what, but he is neat and precise, and he’s done with the first stitch sooner than I expect.

“How did you know to do that?” I ask. When I sewed up my face, I was nowhere near as precise nor was I remotely calm. But in my defense, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking and all I had to go on was watching my sister practice on orange peels and a YouTube video on suturing a wound.

He shrugs a shoulder and gestures to the whiskey.

This time, I don’t refuse it because it hurts like hell. So, I drink down the entire glass, swallow it like it’s water even as it burns my throat, and when I’m done, I pour myself a little more and drink that too.

“Good girl,” he says and pushes the needle into my skin again for a second stitch. Nausea has me squeezing my eyes shut. “Did you do your face yourself?” he asks casually.

I nod. “Yes,” I hear myself answer.

“You’re not very good,” he says, almost making me laugh as he draws the needle out of the other end and what would have been a laugh turns into a sad little whimper.

“It hurts. It really hurts.”

“I imagine it does.” He looks up from my hand to my face. “Are you going to pass out?”

I’m sure I look white as a ghost, but I shake my head. I have to think of Wren now. I have to convince this man that I am not a threat to him. Convince him to let me go. And him doing this now, it’s something. He could just let me bleed out, but he’s not.

“What’s your name? Your real name?” he asks, starting on the third stitch. By my calculation, I’ll need at least six, but I have a feeling he can double that count if he wants to.

“Bluebird,” I say.

He looks up, eyebrows high.

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