Page 79 of Silent Schemes
She doesn’t need to be told where to go.
She peels off toward the back, finds the hidden medical suite behind a pantry door.
I spent a million on this setup, and it looks like it.
It’s ideal for someone like me who needs a safe place and no eyes to watch the clean up.
The irony is never lost on me—most of the blood in here is my own.
After she grabs the med kit, she walks back into the kitchen.
She stands at the sink, fingers slick and red. “I need booze,” she says, voice flat.
“Cabinet above you,” I reply.
She grabs the bottle, lifts her shirt a fraction, splashes half over her wound, the rest down her throat.
She doesn’t hiss at the sting, but I see her eyes water for a half-beat.
“Shirt off,” I say, pulling gloves from the drawer.
She strips without hesitation.
Underneath is all old scar and new bruise, a patchwork of violence.
The fresh cut is clean, maybe an inch deep, just above her hip.
She holds the edge open so I can see. “You’ll need the black thread,” she says.
I nod, set out the suture kit. “Lie down.”
She obeys, laying on the counter.
Her body is a map of wars survived.
I soak a swab, clean the area, and watch her face for any reaction.
Aside from an eye twitch, she doesn’t move a muscle.
“Breathe,” I say, not looking at her.
“I am,” she says, and she is—slow, measured, perfect.
I thread the needle, start the first stitch.
The skin pulls tight under my hand.
I work quickly.
When the blood wells up, I pinch it closed, not gentle.
“You knew,” she says, voice too casual.
I don’t pretend not to understand. “Since the casino. Maybe before.”
She stares at the ceiling, green eyes flat. “Then why?—”
“Because I want you here,” I say, cutting the thread with a snap. “Not as a spy. Not as bait. As an equal.” I tie off the next stitch, wipe away the blood. “You’re the only person in this city who makes me feel something. Even if it’s just rage.”
