Page 6 of Crown of Lies

Nico’s voice pulls me out of my chaotic, confused thoughts—just barely. Clearing my throat, I grunt in response and kneel down in front of Quinn to examine her wounds.

Not that Ireallyneed to take stock of them.

I already know every. Single. One.

Three scratches on her left cheek and one on her right, all shallow enough to not be an issue but deep enough to bleed. A larger cut on her left forearm and one on her leg that ripped through her pants—probably from when I caught her and we both went down to the ground. Four bruises on her stomach. A cut to her lip.

And of course, her bullet wound.

I know each and every one of these injuries because I cataloged them perfectly when I ripped up her shirt to tie her up. Even now, I still notice everything about her, like how her eyes glint in defiance as I untie the cloth binding her hands so I can examine her wounds further, or the slight hitch in her breath when I graze my thumb beneath one of the nastier cuts.

“First aid kit, Atlas?” I call, keeping my eyes on Quinn.

She stares back at me, her gray eyes stormy, and the rest of the basement seems to fade out of existence.

I hum to myself, an almost curious sound. In my mind, it’s just me and her here. I reach out and grab what’s left of her shirt, working it out from beneath the ropes wrapped around her torso and tearing it down the middle to bare more of her to me. Despite her control, Quinn lets out a hiss, her teeth clenched together like she’s biting down on something.

“Fuck,” she whispers.

“Easier to get to your wounds like this,” I tell her, my voice low.

She twists in her seat a bit, and I’m aware of how her pulse quickens in her throat, her eyes dilating as the movement tugsat her wounds and forces their edges to stretch. It’s got to be painful, but pain has never been a real problem for Quinn.

Atlas drops the first aid kit at my feet a moment later, as well as a tool kit I’m familiar with. I grab the first aid kit first, wetting a cotton pad with alcohol. When I dab it against one of Quinn’s injuries, every muscle in her body tenses.

I flick my eyes up to hers as I clean her wounds.

She never looks away. Even when I press harder into her wounds just to make her react to me. Every muffled sound, gasp, clench of teeth, fiery glare?—

They all belong to me.

Even now. Even after everything. They’re mine.

When I’ve cleaned her minor wounds, I pull out a different instrument. It’s technically one for healing, but in the right circumstances, it can be used for torture.

A stainless steel surgical bullet remover.

I’ve been shot enough times and had enough bullets pulled out of me to know one thing: this shit hurts like a bitch.

I hesitate for a moment, torn by conflicting instincts—to hurt or to protect. My usual impulse would be to dig into the wound with no mercy, to treat her like an enemy and make this as painful as possible. But for some reason, despite the fact that her pain is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen, I can’t quite bring myself to do it.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

The mantra starts up in my head again as I lean closer and slip the end of the instrument into the slightly singed hole made in her arm. They don’t tell you that part in the movies—how the heat of a bullet can literally cook the meat on your bones, or how much pain it inflicts to push through it.

It’s enough to make grown men cry, but Quinn is built of different stuff. She doesn’t cry, even when I scrape the tool carefully around the edge of her wound.

No. My Quinn,my siren, is better than that.

But that’s not to say she doesn’t react at all.

Her cheeks flush, her breath coming in short puffs of air. I’m certain that if I reached up to run my fingers along her cheeks, I’d find them warm to the touch. And then there’s the thrum in her throat, the fluttering of her pulse beneath her pale skin. I swear I can almosthearthe rhythm of it.

She hides her reaction well. She doesn’t make a sound, her gaze fixed on some far-off spot on the wall behind me, but I’m so attuned to her that I don’t miss the way her nipples tighten and perk beneath her bra. There’s nothing sexual about what I’m doing to her, but as if it’s an ingrained response at this point, her body is responding to me anyway. To the rush of sensations I’m causing, the overload of pain—something that I know has always been right at the edge of pleasure for her.

My body responds too, an unexpected spark of arousal burning through my veins. But I keep my face impassive and my hands steady as I focus on my work. No matter how much it might remind me of other moments between us, the most intense moments we’ve shared, this is different.

After several minutes of work, I manage to get the bullet out without too much extra damage. The wound itself isn’t large, and it’s easy enough to stitch back up with tools from the first aid kit. Quinn will have a scar—a reminder of what she did that will never fully fade.

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