25. Chapter Twenty-Five Ruby #2
“No. His wife. So many times,” I said. “She barely survived. Then he tried to tell the courts she was taking his kids, and that’s when he tried to kill her one last time.
She was in a coma for two weeks. The judge would have probably been lenient, too.
They always are with men like that, as long as they promise to go to rehab or therapy or whatever.
And he was a doctor, a pillar of the community.
But Russell wouldn’t even do that. He kept saying Melody was a crazy bitch.
He was wrong. He made a big fucking mistake. ”
“He made an even bigger mistake coming after you tonight,” Kieran said.
His voice had dropped an octave, rough and threatening.
I pulled the towel away, and his eyes fluttered closed for a second, jaw tight.
“I should’ve been here sooner. I should’ve stopped him before he even fucking thought about trying this. ”
“This isn’t your fault. But I think you might need stitches, so you might need to go to the hospital.”
“I’m not going to the hospital. You’re going to have to stitch me up.”
“I’m not doing that,” I said, looking at the now red, formerly white, towel. I tossed it in the sink.
“I can’t go to the hospital, Ruby. It’s a simple thing. Can you sew a button back into Rosie’s clothes?”
“Yes…”
“Then you can stitch me up.”
I exhaled through my nose, fingers tightening on the edge of the counter. He said it like it was nothing, like I wasn’t about to shove a needle through his skin and sew him together like a torn-up sweater.
He watched me, unblinking. Calm. Like this was just another thing I was expected to do. I thought back to when he’d treated my cut hand in the shed, and realized he must have done this a million times for his brothers, his father…
Fuck, he was so fucked up.
So much more than I wanted to admit.
“Kieran,” I said, trying to push past the thick, cloying exhaustion sitting heavy in my skull, “I prosecute people. I don’t stitch them up afterward.”
He cocked his head. “And yet here we are.”
I swallowed hard. Fuck. He was right.
I turned away from him, forcing my hands to stay steady as I pulled open a drawer and grabbed a small first-aid kit.
My mind was racing. I didn’t even know where to start.
I wasn’t a goddamn doctor. I barely kept Band-Aids in the house.
The only reason I even had a first-aid kit was because of Rosie.
Kieran must have sensed my hesitation, because he let out a slow breath and leaned forward, elbows braced on his thighs. The movement made his muscles shift under the kitchen light, bare skin gleaming with sweat and blood, the cut at his side still red and raw.
“Okay,” he said, voice low and coaxing—like he was talking me through something much filthier than basic first aid. “You’re gonna sterilize the needle first.”
I turned, giving him a flat look. “And how the fuck do I do that, Kieran?”
That wicked smirk curled across his lips, slow and devastating. “God, I love it when you swear at me.”
My fingers twitched with the urge to slap that look off his face—or maybe kiss it off. I grabbed the nearest pack of gauze and chucked it at his head.
He caught it one-handed. Effortless. Cocky. Didn’t even blink.
Still smirking.
And somehow, despite the blood and the tension and the sting of panic still buzzing in my veins, all I could think about was how stupidly good he looked in my kitchen, half-naked and bleeding, like he belonged there.
“There’s alcohol in the cabinet above the stove, right?” he asked. “We don’t want the wine you use. Something stronger proof. Vodka, or, uh, what was it called? Aguardiente? That one.”
I blinked. “How the hell do you know that?”
“I pay attention,” he said. “Grab it. You’re gonna soak the needle in it.”
I hated that I listened to him, but I didn’t really have another option.I moved, reaching up and pulling down a half-empty bottle of vodka from the top shelf. The glass clinked as I set it down on the counter.
“Good,” he said. “Now, needle and thread. You have a sewing kit?”
I grabbed the small tin from another drawer and set it next to the vodka. Kieran reached for it, but I smacked his hand away.
“Don’t touch anything,” I snapped. “You’re covered in blood.”
His mouth twitched. “You’re cute when you’re bossy.”
I grabbed the sharpest needle from the kit, twisting it between my fingers before dropping it into the vodka. The liquid sloshed against the glass.
“Happy?” I muttered.
“Getting there,” he said. “Now, wash your hands. Really well. Wanna make sure you don’t have any Boston Harbor left under your fingernails.”
“Oh fuck off,” I muttered. I narrowed my eyes at him but still turned on the sink, scrubbing harder than necessary. The water ran red before swirling down the drain.
Behind me, Kieran sighed, shifting against the stool.
“Now dry ‘em,” he said.
“I know how to wash my damn hands,” I muttered, yanking a towel from the hook and turning back to face him.
His lips curved up in amusement, but his eyes—his eyes were sharp, watching me too closely.
I could feel the weight of his stare, the way it settled on me.
Like I was important. Like I was something worth watching.
I grabbed the needle, shook off the excess alcohol, and hesitated. “How do I…?”
Kieran sat up straighter, rolling his shoulders like this was just another Tuesday. “Thread it first. Double knot at the end.”
I followed his instructions, trying to focus, trying not to stare at the cut—at the way his abs flexed when he breathed, at the way his thighs spread wide on the stool, framing me. My pulse pounded in my ears, my fingers trembling just slightly as I tied off the thread.
He noticed. Of course he noticed.
“Steady,” he murmured. He used to love to use that word on me when I was anxious for an orgasm, when he insisted on taking his time. The last time I’d heard him say it, his mouth had been buried between my legs.
I swallowed, yanking my gaze back up to his. For all I knew, he could bleed out right here, and it would be my fault. I had to focus. I had to fix this.
But then I stepped between his knees, and everything else went quiet.
Too close. Close enough to feel the heat coming off him, to smell blood and skin and the ghost of his cologne clinging to his throat. My breath caught. So did his.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I said quietly.
His lips twitched like he wanted to make a joke out of it, but his eyes—fuck, his eyes softened. Darkened. Burned.
“It’s gonna hurt either way, Rubes,” he said, voice rough, his gaze dropping to my mouth. “Might as well make it worth it.”
God.
The way he said my name made me want to do something really fucking stupid.
I forced myself to move, pressing one palm flat above the wound to keep his skin taut. His breath hitched—barely, but I felt it, sharp and undeniable under my hand. His stomach clenched beneath my fingers.
“Now?” I asked, my voice lower than I meant it to be.
Kieran’s eyes dragged over me—slow, heady, filthy.
“No,” he said, nodding toward the counter. “Hand me the vodka first.”
I did as he told me. He took a swig of it, put it by his side and made a face. “Okay. Now.”
I forced the needle through his skin.
Kieran’s jaw locked, his fingers gripping the edge of the counter so tightly his knuckles went white. A muscle in his cheek jumped, but he didn’t make a sound.
I forced myself to breathe, to focus. In, out. In, out.
It was hot in the kitchen now, or maybe that was just me. Maybe it was the way he was looking at me—that intense stare, like he was memorizing my face, my hands, the way I touched him.
“Again,” he said through clenched teeth.
I pulled the thread tight, and his muscles jumped beneath my fingertips.
Goddamn it.
My hands were soaked in his blood now. His scent, his heat, his everything was everywhere.
It was too much.
He was too much.
I swallowed hard, doing the next stitch, then the next. Each time, Kieran took a sharp breath, but he didn’t move, didn’t stop me.
Didn’t stop watching me.
“You’re doing so good,” he murmured after a while.
“Shut up.”
That half-smirk returned. “Okay, boss.”
I cut the thread, my hands shaking now for a different reason.
“There,” I said, stepping back too quickly. “It’s done.”
Kieran exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders, like he was reorienting himself. Like he had felt all of that but just chose to deal with it later.
He looked down at the stitches, then back at me.
“I knew you could do it,” he said.
I hated how warm that made me feel.
I hated him.
I hated how he was still too close, too solid, too fucking alive in my kitchen, watching me like he knew what he was doing to me.
I turned away and washed my hands again.
This time, I could still feel him behind me.
Still feel the way his breath had hitched under my hands.
Still feel how fucking dangerous this was becoming.
I heard him get up and approach me. I felt his hands on my shoulders. Then I felt his breath on my cheek when he leaned down to whisper into my ear, his quiet voice sending a shiver down my spine. “Thank you.”