Page 98 of His To Erase
He pauses to look at me and fuck—his eyes. They are cold and unreadable, yet somehow still burning with heat.
“Good,” he says, keeping his voice low. “Maybe now you’ll remember who you’re playing with.”
I don’t get any warning when he presses the alcohol-soaked gauze to the stab wound at my side—and I see stars. White-hot pain explodes through my ribs, and I clamp my teeth together so hard my jaw throbs. I actually hate needles. The familiar feelingof nausea creeps in at the sight of it, but I’m not going to give him the satisfaction knowing how much I hate this.
His hands stay steady as he gets to work. I can feel my body shaking and it feels like I can feel every goddamn nerve in my body screaming. I grip the edge of the marble hard enough my fingers go numb.
I don’t cry. I don’t flinch. And I don’t fold. Because that’s what he’s waiting for, isn’t it? To see if I break.
“Still with me?” he asks, not looking at my face.
I don’t answer. Mainly because, if I open my mouth, I might throw up.
“Huh.” He pauses. “So that’s what it takes to shut you up. A little pain. Noted.”
And he smiles.Dick.
My jaw locks tighter and it takes everything in me to just breathe through my nose. Hopefully that’ll keep me from launching myself at him and stabbing him for once.
Tempting. But probably not wise considering he has a needle at my side.
I wouldn’t even blink if he told me he’s stitched up his own gunshot wounds in a motel bathroom before. The thought occurs to me to ask him if he’s ever been shot, but I hold it in.
“You always this tough?” he asks, casual as hell, the tip of the needle hovering just above my skin. “Or just when you’re bleeding all over someone else’s kitchen?”
I’m starting to hyperventilate. I know I just need to hold still, but If I say one word, I’m either going to scream, sob, or start reciting all the ways I want to rearrange his face. And I’d rather not do that with him shirtless. But I’ll take anything as a distraction right now.
He hums, tilting his head like he’s inspecting damage.
“Let me guess,” he murmurs, just as the first stitch pulls through. I almost black out right then. “You’re the type whodoesn’t run. Doesn’t ask for help. And you’d rather bleed out than admit you’re hurt.”
I flinch as he pulls the needle through, and now I want to kick myself. Grabbing the glass I throw it back, trying not to cough. Everything hurts.
“Mm,” he hums. “Thought so.”
The thread bites into my skin again, and it takes everything I’ve got to breathe through it without decking him. I glance down at him, at his perfect, infuriating calm hands. At the way he doesn’t even blink while putting me back together like a broken fucking vase.
“Careful,” I mutter, clenching my jaw. “You’re starting to sound like you want to get to know me.”
His hand stills for a second, but it’s just long enough for me to notice.
“I don’t need to know you,” he says. “I’ve seen your type.”
My spine straightens. “My type?”
He threads the next stitch, tight and clean, and it hurts like a bitch. But he still doesn’t look at me. Luckily whatever was in that glass is helping enough to take the edge off.
“Tough girl. Smart mouth. Doesn’t trust anyone, but still walks around acting like she’s bulletproof.”
Another pull of thread, and another flash of pain. But that one I feel in my chest. He’s not done, he just keeps over analyzing me.
“The type that plays invincible until someone calls her bluff.”
My fingers dig into the counter until my knuckles burn.
“You think that’s what this is? A bluff?”
His lips twitch. “No.” He looks up, “I think it’s a defense mechanism.”
