Page 36 of Never Die for a Sinner
“Fine. I’ll let you stitch it when we get home.”
And with that, he’s pulling away as if I’d burned him.
“Where are you going?”
“To make sure it’s dead.”
I watch him disappear into the tree line while my breathing slowly returns to normal. It’s not long before I hear a loudpop,and sorrow washes over me.
I don’t know whether it’s for the deer or the man that had to kill it, but it’s there, and it makes my chest ache.
And unfortunately . . . I’m realizing I’m not as indifferent to Levi Cross as I thought.
Levi drops the first aid kit down on the coffee table in the den, while I fidget nervously with my hands.
“Have you ever given stitches before?” he asks, cocking a brow at me despite the blood oozing from his head.
“No, but . . . how hard can it be?”
He just shakes his head, stalking toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
“Give me a minute,” he replies gruffly.
He disappears from the room while I open the kit and look through the items, pulling out what I think I’ll need, though I really have no idea.
By the time he comes back, he’s got a bottle of whiskey in his hand and a grim look of determination in his eyes.
“Really?” I shoot him a look when he settles on the couch in front of me. It’s entirely too close, but I’m about to get a whole lot closer when I stitch his head shut.
He doesn’t say anything, popping the lid off the bottle. He raises it to his lips while eyeing me over the top, as if he’s challenging me.
Fine. We’ll see how cocky he is when I’ve got a needle in my hand.
I grab the thread and needle—why does the needle look so weird?—and start the painstaking process of trying to thread it with his gaze on me.
I chance a glance at him, and it’s a big mistake because once I do, a shot of electricity shoots through me.
“Stop staring at me.”
“Just wondering when you’re going to figure it out or let me do it.”
“I don’t need your help. I’m competent.”
He cocks a brow at the threadless needle in my hand.
“Looks like it.”
“You know, I could have just let you bleed out.”
Lifting the bottle of whiskey back to his lips, he takes a drink, a devil-may-care glint in his eyes.
“You wouldn’t.”
“Why, because you’re my boss?”
“Because you’ve got a soft heart.”
