Page 25 of Murder & Mayhem

Someone drops the large first aid kit I keep in the office for such situations as these, along with a pile of saline packets and bottles on the sofa beside me, and with a thanks, Red begins tearing them open one at a time and pouring them in and around the wound. I sit and watch, occasionally knocking back another gulp of whiskey while she works, ensuring the wound is thoroughly cleaned.

When she’s satisfied that it’s as clean as it’s going to get, she leans in, palming her blade again. The move brings her face close to mine, enough that I notice the stress lines along her forehead and the nervous way she tugs on her lower lip, prompting my question. “Have you done this before?”

Her gaze flicks to mine, and she pushes her shoulders back, already looking more sure than she did a moment ago. “Once.”

Well, that’s once more than I’d expected, although...“Did the person survive?”

I ask it as more of a joke, already anticipating her snarky response as I take another swallow of whiskey, which is why I choke when she responds, “Well, I’m standing here in front of you, aren’t I?”

“You?” I choke out between coughs. “You removed a bullet from your own shoulder?”

“Yup, and it hurt like a bitch, so stop choking on that shit and finish off the bottle.”

Ignoring her, I stare at her shoulder. She’s wearing a thin-strapped, low-cut vest top, so I can see every inch of her smooth, unblemished skin. Definitely no bullet wound there. I flick my gaze to her other shoulder, the one covered in her vine tattoo, and it takes a second before I spot it, but it’s there. Right in the center of a flowering bud, the skin is puckered and uneven.Huh.I’m dying to know the story behind it, but she doesn’t give me a chance to ask as she orders me once again to finish off the bottle.

Doing as instructed, I keep my eyes trained on hers as I swallow down the last of the whiskey and lick my lips. Her eyes track the movement, but she doesn’t say anything. Simply gives a satisfied nod as I discard the bottle before tightening her hold on the blade and leaning in again, her face inches from my shoulder.

She hovers like that for a minute or so, not making any move to actually get the bullet out of my shoulder, before she sighs. Pulling back, she frowns, grumbling, “fuck it,” under her breath and climbing into my lap before I can stop her. Not that I would—that would just be stupid. What grown-ass, red-blooded male would ever say no to having a hot-as-sin vixen like her in their lap?!

The move has her large tits bouncing right in front of my face, like fucking temptation served up on a platter, just begging for me to lean forward and suck her nipple into my mouth. The feel of her crotch as it settles over mine distracts me, and her brows hitch when she discovers the unmistakable bulge in my pants. A sharp bark of laughter escapes between her lips. “You’re such a masochist,” she teases.

I just grin at her, drunk on blood loss, adrenaline, and the feel of her pressed against me—not to mention the entire bottle of whiskey I just downed. “Who doesn’t like a little pain with their pleasure?” My hands move to rest on her hips in an automatic reflex, pulling her closer until she’s fully seated over my crotch. Leaning in, I murmur in her ear, “Don’t lie to me, Iknowyou like it too.”

Her teeth bite into her bottom lip, and for a long second, I debate replacing them with mine, but before I can act on the notion, she releases her lip. “Cain?” Her voice is raw, throaty.

“Yeah?”

“Your shoulder.”

With a gentle hand to my chest, she pushes me back, and in the space of a blink, the lust clears from her eyes.Right. Bullet wound. That probably trumps getting my dick wet.

She takes a second to get her head back in the game, and I watch, fascinated as she seems to shut herself down so she can focus on what she needs to do. Is that what she does for her Reaper jobs? Just shove her entire personality, her entire being, into a box at the back of her mind? Talk about compartmentalization. It’s both impressive and a little terrifying.

When she next looks at me, her gaze is sure and steady. “Do you trust me?”

I’m still looking deep into her eyes when I reply with confidence, “Yeah, I do.” I have no idea when that happened or how. I guess we all have to trust each other—at least to some degree—if we’re going to work together and have any hope of success, but it’s more than that. My head’s just too fuzzy to work it out right now.

She doesn’t react to my admission but rather angles the knife toward the gaping wound and slowly, steadily, pushes it in. My muscles tense, and I’m gritting my teeth so hard that I’ll be lucky not to crack one before this is all over. The odd grunt of pain escapes me as she digs around, trying to free the bullet, and it takes everything in me not to flinch with every scrape of her blade. More blood flows down my chest, and I try to force myself to focus on something else. Anything else. She shifts in my lap, her apex brushing over my still semi-erect cock…Hmm, well, that’s definitely a distraction.

My gaze dips to where her thighs straddle mine, and I lose track of time for a moment, until her grated, “Cain,” draws me out of my daze.

“Huh?” Lifting my head, I meet her deep-blue gaze, finding her jaw clenched tight.

“Unless you want my blade to slip and accidentally embed itself in your shoulder,pleasestop touching me like that.”

Confused, I slowly run my gaze down her body until I find where I’m touching her. My hand freezes in place on her hip, where it somehow managed to wedge itself underneath her top, and I must have been absently stroking her skin.

“Uh, sorry,” I mumble. Still, I make no effort to remove my hand. I find the heat from her skin oddly comforting. It anchors me, and after a moment, when she goes back to torturing my shoulder and the now-familiar burn of pain radiates out from where she’s poking and prodding at the bullet, I focus solely on the smooth texture of her skin against my palm, the low heat that signifies the rushing of blood through her body, reminding me of just how very much alive she is.

I’ve spent so much of my life living for a ghost; avenging her, I’ve forgotten what it’s like to actuallyseea woman. I’m not talking about admiring a woman or having sex with one, but to truly open yourself up to one, to be fully present in the moment, and appreciate everything that’s right in front of you. Red tests me in a way nobody else ever has. She’s not afraid to stand up and speak her mind or disagree with me—something that I haven’t had much of since forming the Rejects. More importantly, though, every time I volley with her, or even when we were just sitting in the ice cream shop, or here, now, with her in my lap, she makes mefeelalive. Something I don’t remember feeling since before Evie. Something I never thought I’d be capable of experiencing again.

I grunt at an unexpected white-hot flash of pain. “Got it.” Red grins triumphantly as she holds up the tiny metal bullet before dropping it into the empty whiskey bottle. She goes through another round of cleaning out the wound before taking out a suture kit and making quick work of closing it up. It’s by no means professional, but it’s probably better than anything the guys or I could do. I watch her the whole time, flicking between following her steady movements and analyzing the furrow of her brow and the way she purses her lips as she concentrates on the job.

She’s sticking a waterproof bandage over her handiwork when the front door opens and Oliver comes surging in, his eyes wide. It’s only then that I realize Red and I were alone. The rest of the guys must have cleared out to give us some privacy so as not to distract her.

“Dax said you were shot?” Oliver questions, his eyes darting back and forth between Red and me. His brows pull together in confusion, probably surprised to find us alone in the same room without screaming at one another.

“You know me, practically bulletproof.” I grin at him, making his brow cock.

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