CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The colors of dawn had barely begun to paint the sky by the time I pulled the hearse into Seint Manor’s circular driveway and parked beneath the carport. My leg was throbbing, the blood had soaked through my torn pant leg, and the more I thought about it, the more lightheaded I was becoming.
Shawn would've teased me for being woozy, especially after I'd made fun of him over the years for not having the stomach to handle corpse preparation.
Just the sight of the trocar made him gag.
But here I was, struggling to keep my vision from blackening at the edges as I climbed out of the car and limped toward the front door … all because of a little lost blood.
But, in my defense, I wasn't sure at this point how little it was.
After Dean had driven away with Cora and Lara in tow, I took a peek at the cut on my leg after applying a tourniquet, and it was at that time that Jesse had climbed out of his van and whistled at the sight of the blood coating my skin before saying, “Damn, bro. That’s gotta sting like a bitch.”
It did.
Sting like a bitch, I mean.
Now, two hours later, I stumbled my way toward the mansion’s entrance, my leg pulsing with pain with every step. Funny how I hadn’t noticed before, when my focus was entirely on making sure those girls lived to see another day, but now, it was all I could think about.
I gritted my teeth and banged on the door, annoyed that nobody seemed capable of answering the damn thing if Dean wasn't around. I lifted my fist again, ready to pound again, harder this time—I’d break it down if I had to—when it flew open.
And there, standing on the other side, was Analise, dressed in her long black silk robe and a nightgown to match.
Her hair was in a loose braid, slung over one shoulder and draped over the swell of her breast. Her face was barren of makeup, giving her natural beauty a moment to shine, but there was a sleepiness in her eyes, like she’d just rolled out of bed—and considering the time, that was entirely possible.
She gasped at the sight of me in all my masked glory, clutching her hand to her chest as her cheeks instantly flushed.
"Hi," she greeted, breathless as she uttered the first word spoken to me in what felt like months.
"Hey," I said as sweat started to bead across my forehead.
It would've been wise to remove the mask. I needed fresh air desperately, but my secured identity and the safety of my brothers and the funeral home were far more important than my need to breathe.
"I wasn’t expecting—"
"Analise, as much as I'd love to stand here and bullshit with you, I'm having a little problem."
Her demeanor shifted immediately, her face now blanketed with concern. "What's wrong?"
I nudged my chin downward. "I got a little scratch on my leg."
She dropped to her knees, and if I'd been in any other condition, the motion would’ve brought lewd thoughts to mind—of her undoing my belt in a moment of desperation to free my dick from its confines and pull me into her hot, wet mouth.
And, God, I wished to be living in a time just like that.
I wished to know exactly what it was like to hear her moan and feel the vibrations travel their way up my spine, to roll my eyes toward the back of my head as she brought me deeper and deeper into her throat.
But instead of living a fantasy, I leaned against the doorframe, my eyelids fluttering closed, and I focused on leveling out my shallow breaths as she ripped my pant leg open with startling strength to assess the damage.
"Oh my God," she uttered. “Can you walk?”
“I got over here, didn’t I?”
She sighed like she didn’t have the patience for me. “I know that, but I meant—"
"Yes, I can walk," I mumbled, my forehead pressed to my forearm. “But I’m fading fast here.”
“Okay,” she said as she stood and wrapped her arm around my waist. "Come on. You can lean on me."
The thought made me chuckle.
At six foot six, I dwarfed her, and I figured I had to be at least a hundred pounds heavier.
But I feared I wouldn't be able to keep myself upright if I didn't at least try to do as she’d asked, so I let her sling my arm around her shoulders.
She held on tight to my hand, keeping me secure, and with her arm around my middle, she brought me through the foyer and into that sitting room full of furniture and her paintings.
"Here, lie down."
I collapsed onto a velvet couch, stretching my injured leg out while the other remained on the floor.
Analise put a pillow behind my head, instructed me to lie back, and then she hesitated for a moment, her gaze lingering over my face.
Her dark eyes softened as her full lips parted, and I stared back, wondering how the hell she could look at me like that.
Like, somehow, she had gotten confused along the way and was convinced that I was playing the role of the courageous hero and not the dastardly villain.
I wondered how long she’d have to stare at me just like that before I started to believe in the same fairy tales.
"You really should take this off," she whispered, her hands hovering over my mask. “You need fresh air.”
I shook my head. "No."
"But—"
“I said, no," I interrupted harshly, my jaw clenched.
She looked rejected and wounded, like a child who’d just been scolded.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just need you to understand that I—”
“No, I do understand,” she replied, letting the topic rest.
But she was hurt, even as she refocused her attention on the wound, tearing the pant leg further toward my thigh until my entire calf and knee were exposed.
She thinks I don’t trust her … because I don’t.
But I want to.
"It's a pretty deep cut," she assessed as she retrieved something from beneath the couch. “You’re going to need stitches.”
“I figured,” I muttered as I lifted my head to find a first aid kit opened on the floor beside her. Then I chuckled as she pulled out a pair of latex gloves. “You’ve done this before.”
"Well, when you live in this family, you have to be prepared. Why do you think I went to nursing school?"
I furrowed my brow. “I didn’t know you were a nurse.”
“Only here,” she muttered, slipping her hands into the gloves and grabbing a bottle of what I assumed to be antiseptic. "This is going to hurt, by the way."
I winced as she poured the contents of the bottle onto the deep wound, my sharp inhale hissing through my clenched teeth.
"So, you became a nurse for Gerald?” I asked, diverting my attention to something else, something more pleasant.
Something like …
Her.
"Not for Gerald. For the Seints," she corrected me. "Everybody earns their keep in one way or another. And it’s always been like that, long before I came around.”
"You're only, what, twenty-five?"
Her lips curved into a flirtatious smile as she said, “Doctor, flattery isn’t going to make this sting any less.”
“I wasn’t—”
She interrupted with a gentle laugh as she dabbed at the cut with a cloth that was quickly being covered in my blood. "I’m actually thirty. But I was adopted by my mother when I was nine."
"You were adopted," I repeated, turning my head to stare across the room at the painting of the shoreline. "So, you were in the system?"
"Yep, ever since I was … two, I think. Maybe three. I can't remember."
"Me too," I replied softly, folding my hands over my stomach as my gaze lingered on that image of the sunset sinking beneath the water’s surface. "Well, I was four, but … same difference."
"Were you ever adopted?"
"No,” I answered flatly, before quickly correcting myself, “Well, not technically. My father … he took me in off the streets when I was sixteen."
"So, you were a runaway," she guessed, slowly wiping the blood away in gentle strokes of the cloth against my skin.
"I did what I had to do," I replied before swallowing down a slew of memories I’d rather not linger on.
“Kinda like now, huh?”
“Hmm?” I grunted.
She smiled. “You’re just doing what you have to do.”
I huffed a laugh. “Yeah,” I muttered with a sigh. “It’s not like I was given much of a choice in the matter.”
“None of us are,” she replied, her voice soft and burdened by the things she wasn’t saying. Things that made my brow furrow and my lips part with unspoken questions.
But before I had the chance to say anything, she hummed a contemplative sound as she rifled through the bag. "Well, I have good news and bad news.”
“Lay it on me, Nurse.”
The nickname rolled off my tongue easily, and her cheeks flushed.
“The good news is, you didn't sever any arteries."
“And the bad news?”
“The bad news is, you nicked a vein, so you did lose a bit of blood. But I think it's safe to say, you'll survive. You just need a lot of water and a lot of rest, and you’ll be good as new.”
"Aw shucks. My plans to die have been foiled yet again."
She giggled a bit, and I closed my eyes, reveling in the sound.
I liked making her laugh, liked making her happy. It felt like a reward, and I thought, If I could stand on the shoreline, listening to the sounds of the waves and that laugh, maybe then I could finally be happy too.
Maybe then I could be at peace.
I’d like to know what that feels like. Even just once.
"You do need quite a few stitches though," she said, rifling through the bag. "Do you want something for the pain or—"
"No, I can handle it," I interrupted.
I didn’t like to put anything foreign into my body if I could avoid it. I’d seen too many lives destroyed by drugs and alcohol to take my chances with anything, even something as innocent as a couple of ibuprofen.
“Are you sure? This is going to hurt.”
“I guarantee I’ve been through worse.”
She didn't argue beyond that and removed a needle and thread. “You ready?” she asked, taking her position at my leg.
I rested my arm behind my head and gritted my teeth before muttering, “Yep.”
The first pierce of the needle through flesh made me screw my eyes shut, and as she carefully pulled me back together, she asked, "You okay over there, tough guy?"
"Mmhmm," I grunted.
She huffed a giggle as she made the second stitch. “You sure? Because it’s not too late to pop a couple of pills.”