Page 30 of Kept in the Dark
The infuriated noisealmostslips out this time. “Whyaren’t we in the marina?”
“Open water is safer.”
Ugh. Fine. I sort of suspected there was a reason we went to a houseboat and not a motel or something, even though I don’t like that he obviously moved us while I was sleeping.
“I need to use the bathroom,” I mutter, just a little petulantly.
I’m not expecting the door to open immediately. And I’m really not expecting to be confronted by a thoroughly pissed-off expression and a long expanse of naked torso. Dimitri is holding a large pad of gauze to his side with one hand, his elbow awkwardly angled backwards.
My eyes drop. I can’t help it. He has dark, curly chest hair that covers sculpted pecs and trails down his abs. They aren’t super defined, but they are pronounced, and covered in a layer of protective fat that I know means his strength is functional and not vanity.
It’s clear that he’s a warrior. He’s been through—holy shit—a lot. His torso and arms are littered with scars of various ages. There are more long slashes, like the one on his face, some circular masses that must be old bullet wounds, and one spray of tiny punctures on his stomach that makes me wince because it must have come from a shotgun. It couldn’t have been fun to dig out all that shot. There are also several small, thin slivers in key places, like near his kidneys, that make me think he was shanked.
Did he do time?
My suspicion grows when I see the crude stick and poke prison-style tattoo on his right pec, a series of tally marks. I’m not sure what 12 means to him. The number of times he’s been incarcerated? The number of people he’s slept with? The number of people he’s killed?
I’m not sure I want to know.
I glance up, realize I’ve been gawking for a solid few seconds, and proceed to make it worse by being totally unable to look away from hisface. He’s too tall to stand upright down here, so his ducked head casts his face in some shadow, but it’s not enough to hide him.
In dim lighting and at night, his dark features were stark, almost sharp. Now, I realize he’s not handsome, exactly—not classically, anyway, with that scar and permanent scowl—despite the angularity around the corners of his jaw. But he’s all power and strength, and there’s something magnetic about that.
The fury creasing his face melts into mild irritation under my curious exploration. He’s watching me absorb his features, tense and wary. There’s an expectation of rejection in his look that I’m not sure he’s aware of, and it squeezes my heart.
But those eyes… For the first time since we’ve met, there’s finally enough light to really see them. I feel like I’m falling into the coldest, lightest, bluest sky. They’re ice chips. Frozen rivers in winter. Frankly, they’re as eerie as they are beautiful and make me feel like he’s got built-in x-ray vision.
They fit him, because they make my stomach flop—and not in a 100% pleasant way.
He’s the embodiment of violence.
I swallow and take a deep breath.Focus, Nicole.He’s injured, so I should help—he’ll be a lot more useful to me if he doesn’t bleed out or get an infection and die. It’s not like I know how to drive a boat. And in that vein, I can make myself useful to him. Who would hurt the person giving them medical care?
“Do you want me to take a look at that?”
His jaw clenches as he assesses me. Can he see through my words to the underlying intent?
“I have a bunch of certifications for wound care—I can even do stitches, if you need them,” I offer. Geez, what is this, a job interview?
“Why would you do this for me?”
Just like in the car, his suspicion is strangely soothing. It makes me feel more like we’re in this together; he’s not stealing me away on a boat to chop me into little pieces and toss me in the water for the sharks.
“You saved me first,” I shrug. “One good turn deserves another.”
He searches my face for something. I’m not sure if he finds what he’s looking for, but he nods after a moment. “Very well. But only because I cannot reach it properly.”
Despite his obvious reticence, it still feels like a win. I’ll take it.
“Um, first, could I…” I gesture to the toilet.
With a glance over his shoulder, he silently collects the first aid kit that was spread out over the sink counter and squeezes past me. So focused on the impending relief, I realize embarrassingly late that I need to move out of his way, and he brushes my shoulder with his chest. Cheeks heating, I shut the door.
When I emerge, I see he has moved aside the musty covers and is sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning away from the bandage against his side that stays stuck even though he’s using both hands to type on his phone. His black sweatpants are slung low to give me access, and the angle calls some muscles to the surface of his skin that I’ve only seen in my anatomy diagrams.
I watch as he continues tapping on the screen, silently waiting until he finishes his message. It makes me think of the beaded bag still sitting upstairs by the sink. I need to hide my work phone somewhere. There’s very little chance Kyle could track me using a decade-old, shared hospital cell phone that isn’t registered to me, but just in case, I’ll keep it turned off.
Seeing that I’m ready, he pockets his cell phone, twists his torso, and leans on his hand, and I have to steel myself as my stomach flutters in response to the overtly sexual picture it paints.
