CHAPTER 19 #2
He dropped back onto the tarp, gasping, his teeth grinding together so loudly I thought he was going to shatter his jaw.
I grabbed the Zippo, flicked it open, and held the thick upholstery needle in the golden flame until the metal tip glowed a bright, cherry red.
With violently shaking fingers, I threaded the heavy-duty fishing line through the eye.
The smell of burning metal and charred dust filled the tiny space between us.
I blew on my fingers a quick, frantic puff of air after the hot needle stung my skin. I positioned myself over his hip, gripping the needle like a weapon. "I'm starting. Now."
I plunged the thick steel needle through the ragged edge of his skin. The sheer resistance of his tough, heavily scarred flesh was immense. I literally had to use the flat palm of my hand to shove the back of the needle through, dragging the abrasive fishing line behind it like barbed wire.
"One. That's one. Look at me, Damon," I demanded. My hair had fallen into my face in a tangled mess, but I didn't even bother brushing it away. I just stared at him through the dark strands, pulling the line taut.
Damon’s eyes remained locked dead on mine.
He wasn't looking down at the needle tearing through his flesh.
He wasn't looking at the blood pooling under his back.
He was tracking every single flicker of emotion on my face, anchoring himself to my presence to keep from completely losing his mind to the white-hot pain.
His knuckles were bone-white as he gripped the edge of the tarp, his fingernails digging so hard into the fabric I heard the canvas ripping.
"Keep your eyes on me. Don't look down," I ordered, my voice dropping an octave as I pushed the needle through for the second stitch.
I fell into a brutal, trance-like rhythm.
Piercing the skin, shoving the needle, pulling the line, knotting it tight.
My hands were slick with his blood, slipping on the metal, but my grip was iron.
I was creating a jagged, ugly, unforgiving seam across his abdomen, but the bleeding was finally starting to slow.
The physical exertion of forcing that thick needle through his muscle over and over was completely draining me.
My fingers were cramping so badly they were locking up.
I paused for half a second to wipe my hands viciously on my trousers, leaving wide, dark, wet stains on the fabric. "Almost there. Just five more."
The rhythmic tink of the needle occasionally hitting the metal floor mixed with his ragged, heavy exhales. "Stay with me, Boss," I murmured, the title slipping out of me automatically, a leftover reflex from the hierarchy he had beaten into me back at the fortress.
A sudden, violent flash of lightning through a distant, grimy porthole illuminated the hold in a stark blue-white glare.
In that split second, the visual of his body was undeniable.
The devastation was complete. The horrific, thick burn scars twisting up his ribs from whatever warehouse fire he’d survived as a kid, the dark purple bruises blooming across his chest from the subway fight, and the way his entire frame was vibrating with the sheer effort of not screaming.
I adjusted my position, my knees clicking loudly against the cold floor. "I see you. I've got you."
Then, Damon’s left hand—the one not white-knuckling the tarp—began to move.
It was a slow, shaky, deliberate ascent.
I instantly flinched, my needle hovering in the air.
My entire nervous system spiked into fight-or-flight.
I fully expected him to shove me off, to strike me, to lash out at the source of his agonizing pain like a cornered animal.
I held my breath, bracing for the impact.
"Damon? Stop. Don't touch it," I warned, my voice tight.
Instead of a strike, his bloody, trembling fingers reached up and found my face.
He didn't push me. He gently brushed a stray, sweat-soaked lock of hair away from my forehead, tucking it behind my ear with a tenderness that was so physically shocking I actually stopped breathing.
His touch was light, almost reverent, his rough thumb lingering on my temple for a second, smearing a small trail of his own blood against my skin.
His face was twisted in an absolute grimace of pain, sweat pouring off him, and yet he was touching me like I was the fragile one.
"You..." I breathed, entirely thrown. The clinical wall I had built in my head shattered into a million pieces. The audacity of this man to comfort me while I was literally sewing his body together with fishing line. It was completely unhinged.
"I'm almost done. I promise," I whispered, my voice breaking.
The weight of that touch gave me a final, frantic surge of adrenaline.
I worked faster, the needle flying aggressively through the last inch of the torn flesh.
I didn't look up at his face again, but I could feel his hand drop and rest heavily near my knee, a silent, grounding presence.
I tied the final knots with a savage, aggressive pull, making damn sure this ugly seam would not come undone again.
"Last one. Here we go," I gritted out.
I leaned down and snipped the thick plastic line right near his skin with my teeth. The sharp metallic taste of his blood and the chemical plastic of the line coated my tongue. I sat back and spit the excess piece of line onto the metal floor, my mouth twisted in a deep grimace.
"It's closed. It's over," I said, my voice hollow. The wound looked horrific—a puckered, Frankenstein-like scar running across his side—but it wasn't actively bleeding anymore.
Damon didn't move. He was completely grey-faced, his chest rising and falling in shallow, erratic jerks. "Damon? Damon, look at me."
As soon as the tension of the surgery broke, my own body betrayed me.
The Zippo lighter slipped from my numb fingers and clattered loudly against the steel deck.
My hands, which had been so steady and ruthless a minute ago, began to vibrate with a violent, uncontrollable tremor.
My nervous system was completely short-circuiting.
I tried to clench my hands into tight fists to stop the shaking, but my fingers simply refused to obey the commands from my brain.
"I can't... I can't feel my hands," I stammered out to the empty room, the adrenaline crash hitting me like a freight train.
Damon’s head suddenly lolled to the side, his dark eyes rolling back. He finally succumbed to the massive blood loss and shock, going entirely limp against the tarp. His chest stopped moving with those ragged gasps.
"No. No, don't you dare. Don't you dare die now," I panicked, my voice raw.
I scrambled forward on my hands and knees, reaching out and pressing two trembling fingers violently against his thick neck, hunting frantically for his carotid artery.
The sudden stillness of his massive frame was terrifying.
I swayed, all the strength vanishing from my core, and I just collapsed forward.
I fell right onto his broad chest, my head resting heavy just above his heart.
I was too completely drained to even lift my arms to hold myself up.
I just lay there, my face pressed against his cold, damp, blood-smeared skin, my dark hair fanning out across his chest.
"Please," I whispered to the dark. "Just one beat."
I closed my eyes, pressing my ear harder against his ribs. The silence in the hold was oppressive, stretching out for a terrifying eternity.
And then I heard it.
A slow, heavy, stubborn thud. Thump-thump.
A pause, and then another. Thump-thump.
It was weak, dragging, and irregular, but it was there. A survivor’s heart. He was alive.
The sheer relief was so violent it made my stomach pitch. "You're there. You're still there," I muttered into his skin.
I didn't move. I stayed sprawled across him, anchoring his body heat with my own, two broken, blood-soaked things left in the dark.
The storm outside battered the metal hull relentlessly, but inside, there was only the slow, synchronized sound of our breathing.
I weakly curled my numb fingers into the uninjured fabric of his shoulder, securing my grip on him.
"We're still here," I told him, even though he couldn't hear me.
We were locked in a rusting metal box, smelling like copper and cheap vodka, hunted by half the city, and held together by fishing line. The reality of our situation was a total disaster. I rested my chin on his chest, staring out into the pitch-black hold, listening to the rain.
Let the world come. We were still breathing, and for right now, that was enough.