24. Olivia
OLIVIA
I dumpmy cell on the vanity and reach out, cautiously exploring.
“No” is all he says.
“But the blood.” I keep up the frenzied search as bile climbs my throat. There’s no way I can fix a bullet to the chest. He could die. He would die.
His cool palms clasp my wrists. “It isn’t mine.”
My panic transforms to anguish at his guttural tone.
I stand straight, meeting his gaze.
This man is no heartless criminal. Pain swims in those eyes.
He must’ve held that boy while he died. Must’ve clung to him so tight.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
He releases me with a wince and turns to the supplies. “How do you want to do this?”
By comforting you.
“I don’t know.” Nervousness bubbles in my belly as I move to the vanity and look through all the things he’s pulled from the drawer. The sterile bandages. Tweezers. Staple gun. Antiseptic. Gauze. Cotton swabs. “You could start by showing me the wound.”
I picture him lowering his zipper, removing his pants, exposing the outline of his crotch through whatever bloodstained underwear he must be wearing, and my heart palpitates.
Only that’s not what he does.
He moves to sit on the vanity and grabs a pair of scissors to hack at his pants above the wound. The sound of grating material fills the room, fighting for dominance over the loud thunder of my pulse in my ears.
I don’t look. Not yet. I clean my hands instead, working up a thick lather of his sandalwood-scented soap, making sure I scrub every nook and cranny meticulously.
I’d love to admit the impressive sanitation technique is only due to an enviable hygiene ethic, but the reality is that my fingers are trembling and I don’t want him to notice.
He cuts off the entire right leg of his pants, then discards the scissors for the liquor bottle and takes a long pull. “If all this is too much I’ll drive you home.”
It is. Way too much. But I can’t walk away. “Nothing inside those pants of yours has been, or ever will be, too much for me. I can handle it just fine.”
From the corner of my eye I see his lips twitch, yet his gaze remains haunted.
“You can help by gently pouring antiseptic on the wound.” I kill the water and pat my hands dry on a non-sterile towel, defeating the purpose of the last two minutes of scrubbing.
He does as I ask, opening the antiseptic to douse it excessively over his thigh.
I hiss in a breath, empathizing with the pain it must cause, but Remy doesn’t react. “Go easy.” I grab the bottle from him, my fingertips eliciting an unwanted tingle at our brief contact. “Let me handle it from here.”
“This isn’t my first rodeo.”
“No?” I splash my hands with antiseptic, then focus on the bullet wound. “How many times have you been shot?”
“This is my maiden voyage in that regard, but my brother stabbed me in the opposite thigh not too long ago.”
I pause, momentarily stunned at how casually he explains the familial violence. “Salvatore stabbed you?”
“No. It was Matthew. Don’t worry though. I deserved it.”
“I don’t doubt it.” I suck in a strengthening breath and creep closer, positioning myself between his spread knees, the proximity drying my mouth. “I’m going to touch you now.”
I pause, anticipation thudding in my chest, butterflies erupting in my tummy.
He’s so composed. Sedate.
I’m the opposite. Every nerve sensitive. Every heartbeat frantic.
I sweep my fingertips over antiseptic-covered skin, the contact tingling all the way up my arm.
His thigh tenses.
I snap my gaze to his. “If I hurt you?—”
“You won’t,” he cuts me off.
“But if?—”
“You won’t, Ollie. Just do what needs to be done.”
I swallow over the ache in my throat and nod.
I lean down, taking a closer look at the wound. The entry is almost perfectly circular. A small, round hole. The exit—a few inches around the side of his thigh—is slightly bigger, with ragged edges.
“I like that you don’t get squeamish around blood,” he murmurs.
“I don’t think I was ever allowed the luxury, given my parents’ work.” I hold out a hand as I scan both wounds for debris. “Tweezers?”
He scrounges through his supplies and passes over a pair, his touch lingering in my palm until I drag my hand away.
He drinks liquor while I drag threads of material from inside his thigh. Not many. Just a few. And I ignore the way my neck tingles from his attention peering down at me.
“So tell me,” I ask, “what actions were deserving of you being stabbed by your own brother?”
“None you’d find endearing.”
I ignore the heat unfurling beneath my ribs, unsure if endearing himself to me is his aim, and equally uncertain if I want it to be. “I’m not surprised. If I was the gambling type I’d make a bet that you save all your charm for those random text messages you send me.”
“The tone of the texts is necessary to create a plausible backstory for our contact.”
“So they weren’t true?” I try to sound casual. Flippant. I’m not sure I pull it off.
“I didn’t say that.” He falls silent, his attention confounding.
I grab the staple gun and confirm it’s stocked. “You might want to take another drink before I do this next part.”
“I’m good.”
He doesn’t sound like it. Not at all.
I cave and glance up to meet his gaze.
His head is slightly inclined toward mine, the wisps of his dark blond hair falling to frame tortured eyes.
I clear my throat and focus back on the exit wound, tackling the harder of the two injuries first. I pinch the skin around the opening, struggling to draw the flesh together at first. “Tell me about the boy.” I poise the staple gun over the join I’ve created, my request probably not the best topic to distract from the impending pain. “What happened?”
He makes a noise. A low grumble.
“Come on. You don’t have to tell me everything. Only what you’re comfortable with.” I press the trigger.
He flinches, but that’s it. There’s no hiss of breath. No curse. Just the slightest recoil as his skin is punctured. “There isn’t much to tell. I was taking Flynn to get dinner.”
I pinch more flesh together and prepare for another staple.
“We were walking from the building,” he says on a rasp.
“This building?” I pull the trigger, inspiring another sedated flinch.
“Yeah. But don’t worry. You’re safe. I wouldn’t have brought you here otherwise. I’ve got men on watch.”
I nod away the fear, stowing it in the back of my mind to deal with later.
“We were side by side on the footpath,” he continues. “One minute, he was cracking jokes about his latest prank—the next, bullets rain, and he’s on the ground covered in blood.”
I pull the staple trigger, hoping my attempt to distract him from physical pain isn’t increasing his emotional suffering.
“They shot him in the chest.” His voice cracks. “Twice. The kid didn’t stand a chance.”
I release the trigger one more time, closing the exit wound. “You did a good thing, letting him live with you.”
He scoffs as I grab the middle of the entry wound to pull the skin together. “I told myself the same thing when I first invited him into my home. But I was kidding myself. I dragged him into a life far more dangerous than the one he had living on the street. If it wasn’t for me he’d still be alive.”
“You don’t know that.” I release another staple into his flesh while he takes a gulp of liquor. “Life is fickle. People die suddenly all the time. Healthy, happy people. From the most inane things. I see it every week. And that’s for those lucky enough to have a roof over their head.” I pinch more flesh. Repeat the same process. “Living on the street isn’t something a lot of people survive. He could’ve starved. He could’ve frozen to death. He could’ve?—”
“But he didn’t. He was gunned down by my enemies. Because of my actions. This is on me.”
I don’t know what else to say to ease his guilt, so I focus on distraction. “Was he a drug user? I noticed the cocaine on the coffee table when I came in. Or maybe those lines are yours…”
He doesn’t answer as I remain poised to inflict another staple.
I wait a few seconds, and still, nothing. There’s only the feel of his gaze on the back of my neck, so deeply engrained the energy flutters all the way down my spine.
I don’t want to look at him again, don’t want to succumb.
But like always, I fall victim to Remy. I drag in a shallow breath and raise my gaze, immediately drowning in a sea of him.
“I don’t do drugs,” he murmurs. “Neither did Flynn. But I appreciate you being here even though you think I’m a monumental piece of shit.”
I don’t think that.
God, I wish I did.
I clear my throat and return my attention to the wound, pinching, stapling.
“The lines are baby powder,” he continues. “It was Flynn’s latest test to see if I’d kick him out. His parents did a number on him. They must’ve blown their lid at the slightest inconvenience, and he couldn’t understand why I wasn’t the same. He kept pushing to see when I’d kick him out.”
I pinch, staple, wither toward heartbreak.
“It started with stupid things. He short-sheeted my bed. Poured pickle juice into the milk. Squeezed hair dye into my shampoo. I never told him, but I enjoyed it for the most part. He made it feel like I was back living with my brothers.”
Pinch, staple, wither. “Back when you were playing sibling stabbing games?”
He huffs a strained laugh. “No, the stabbing was far more recent.”
“It sounds like Flynn could’ve given me some lessons on how to rile you.” I pull the trigger on the final staple, my fingertips lingering on his taut muscles for unnecessary seconds.
“Not a lot riles me these days, Pyro.” He reaches under my chin and raises my face to his. “But rest assured you always will.”
I stare into his sorrow, become consumed by it. “You seem okay to me.”
“Look closer.”
My pulse stutters.
My cheeks flush.
“You’d think losing Flynn, being punctured with a million fucking staples, and attempting to drown any ounce of emotion in liquor would’ve lessened your effect.” His voice brushes over me in tempting strokes. “But I’m still fucking hard.”
I pull back, my gaze instinctively snapping to the massive bulge of his crotch.
I suck in a breath and glance away as the flush takes over the rest of my body.
“It’s sick, right?” he taunts.
I nod. Because it is. It’s vile and shameless and so sickeningly problematic. But here I stand, guilty of the same lust.
I clear my throat. “You need to dress your wounds.”
“You can do it for me.”
No, I can’t. I can’t touch him knowing we both crave the same thing.
“Come on, Pyro. I like when you play nurse.”
I glare at him. Glare so hard it hurts. It morphs. It transforms into a choking, needy ache in my throat.
He grabs the sterile bandages and holds them out. “You can’t half finish the job.”
I snatch the bandages and drop one back to the vanity before tearing open the other. “Too bad the cartel didn’t have the same code of conduct.”
His lips kick in a half-smile. “Don’t pretend you wouldn’t mourn my loss.”
“Are you sure about that?” I remove the plastic from the adhesive edges then clap the bandage over the entry wound harder than necessary.
He jolts with a chuckle. “I like when you’re fired up.”
I grab the second bandage. “Do you want to do this yourself?”
“Not even a little bit.”
“Then I suggest you start keeping your thoughts private.” I rip open the packet, prepare the bandage, then place it over the exit wound, gentler this time, not daring to give him more angst. “If you’re not going to see a doctor you should get a topical antibiotic to reduce the risk of infection.”
“I’ll get right on it,” he drawls in a tone that implies he’ll do the exact opposite.
“With people actively attempting to kill you, I’d do my best not to give them exactly what they want.” I busy myself tidying up the surgical equipment, returning the staple gun to the drawer, balling up the empty bandage packaging, and throwing it to the waste bin beside the vanity. “You should also shower. You’re covered in blood. The dressings are waterproof so don’t worry about those.”
“Do you help with patient bathing requirements?”
All my air congeals in my throat. I don’t know why he’s acting like this. Is it grief? Self-preservation after a life-threatening situation?
Whatever the cause, it can’t be personal.
He’s suffering and, proximity-wise, I’m currently his only outlet.
“Sorry, Grim. These hands are still virginal.” I paste on a half-smile. “So I’m under qualified as far as your preferences are concerned.”