Chapter 13 #2
“No.” He leaned in slightly, voice dropping. “Unmasked.”
I froze. But only for a second. Then I looked away and snapped open the bottle of alcohol.
“Show me the wound,” I muttered.
He hesitated. Of course he did. Too proud. Too in control to ask for help even now.
But when his hand twitched and he tried to reach for the buttons, I saw it—his fingers fumbled. Slower than they should’ve been. Weaker.
“Goddamn it,” I muttered under my breath. Before he could argue, I moved. Stepping closer, huffing out a breath as I batted his hands away and started fumbling with his shirt myself.
He went still. But he didn’t stop me.
The tension between us stretched, sharp and electric. My fingers brushed against the warm skin of his abdomen, the fabric sticking to the blood. I didn’t look at his face. Because if I did… I wasn’t sure what I’d see.
Wasn’t sure what I’d feel. And I couldn’t afford that.
Not with Rafael bleeding on my couch. Not when I wasn’t sure if I wanted to stitch him up—or open him further.
His shirt peeled away from his skin like it was clinging to him. Dried blood made the fabric stiff, but there was fresh red beneath it—darker, wetter. The kind that made my stomach tighten even though I’d seen worse.
I finally got it off and dropped the ruined shirt beside the couch, the sound soft against the wood.
My eyes lifted to his, and for a breath, I couldn’t look away.
There was something unguarded in his expression.
Not soft—he didn’t have that in him. But raw.
Stillness draped over him like a second skin, but it didn’t hide the pulse ticking hard at his jaw, or the tension running through his muscles like coiled wire.
I reached for the kit, but his hand caught mine. His good one. Rough fingers wrapped around my wrist—not tight, not possessive. Just… still. Firm. Like he was holding something fragile without meaning to.
“Do you even know what the hell you’re doing?” he asked, voice low and edged with something close to amusement, but not quite.
I didn’t flinch. I narrowed my eyes and pulled my wrist gently from his grasp. “I’ve stitched up worse,” I said. “Try having to cauterize a bullet wound with vodka and a lighter while holding your best friend down with one hand.”
He stared at me for a beat. Then let go. His mouth twitched like he wanted to say something but didn’t. That almost-smirk again.
I grabbed the antiseptic and gauze, pouring just enough onto a cloth. “This is going to hurt,” I said without any sugar-coating, dipping the cloth in again and moving closer.
He didn’t move.
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he muttered.
I paused. “Must burn like hell,” I said, tone flat but not unfeeling.
His gaze flicked up to mine. “You get used to pain,” he said simply. “Eventually, it’s the only thing that still feels real.”
His words weren’t dramatic. No false weight. Just fact. And something about the way he said it settled uncomfortably in my chest. Like it pressed on a bruise I’d forgotten I had.
I didn’t answer. Didn’t trust myself to. Instead, I pressed the soaked cloth against the gash on his arm.
He hissed between his teeth but didn’t move. My eyes flicked to his face. A muscle jumped in his cheek, but that was all. He stared straight ahead like I wasn’t even there, like he could will the pain away by refusing to give it power.
It was both infuriating and… Mesmerizing.
“I could dig in with pliers, and you’d still act like this was a scratch,” I muttered.
“Probably,” he rasped, dryly. “But you won’t. You want me alive.”
I didn’t deny it.
For a second, my hand lingered—just slightly—before I reached for more gauze. And in that second, something passed between us. Not a truce. Not even understanding. Just heat. Silent. Simmering. Dangerous.
I kept my face neutral as I reached for the surgical thread. The moment I touched it, his voice slid out like a blade.
“Try not to fuck it up.”
I didn’t look at him. “Bleed out, Carrion King. See if I care.”
I took a breath as I unwrapped the sterile suture kit, laying the tools out across the table one by one—scissors, forceps, needle holder, curved needle pre-threaded with black surgical thread. The antiseptic still clung to the air, sharp and acrid. It didn’t bother me. The smell grounded me.
Rafael sat still as stone, his good hand braced on the armrest of the couch, his wounded one lying slightly elevated and bloody in his lap.
His posture was relaxed, but it was the kind of calm you only get after years of violence.
Calculated. Controlled. He might’ve been bleeding, but he still looked like the most dangerous thing in the room.
“Don’t flinch,” I said coolly, pulling on the gloves.
His lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “You trying to scare me, or seduce me, malishka?”
I shot him a glare, grabbing the antiseptic again. “You’d be easier to seduce unconscious.”
“I like a challenge.”
I didn’t answer. My fingers were steady as I wiped the wound one last time and held the needle over it. “You’re going to feel this,” I said flatly.
“I’d be disappointed if I didn’t.”
The first puncture broke the skin clean. I watched his jaw tighten, the cords of his neck strain slightly. No sound came from him. No breath hitched.
He just watched me. That was the worst part.
His eyes tracked every movement of my hands, like I was a bomb technician and he was the damn device.
“You’re too quiet,” I muttered, threading the needle through again. “It’s unsettling.”
“Would you prefer I scream?”
“I’d prefer if you looked less entertained.”
He huffed once. A low, almost-sound that might’ve passed for amusement if his blood wasn’t drying on my fingertips.
“You’re good at this,” he said after a moment, voice rough.
“I told you. I’ve done it before.”
“For Ash?”
I paused, glancing at him. His expression hadn’t changed. Sharp. Still. Like he wasn’t just bleeding out on my couch in a foreign country after nearly being killed.
Like this was foreplay.
“You jealous?” I asked dryly, finishing another suture and snipping the thread.
“No.” His gaze dragged down to my mouth. “I just like knowing how many men you’ve saved so I can make sure I’m the only one you regret.”
I bit back the urge to curse him and kept working. “Don’t flatter yourself,” I muttered. “I didn’t save you. I patched you up so I could be the one to put you down.”
“Ah,” he said, voice low. “Now that sounds like the woman I know.”
Another stitch. Another pull. He didn’t move.
I could feel the heat from his body now, could see the blood still drying on his ribs and trailing down his side.
His skin was tan, marked by old scars—some thin and pale, others darker.
Faded burns. A bullet wound near his collarbone.
A jagged cut low on his abdomen. Every mark was a story he hadn’t told. Every mark was a life survived.
I finished the last stitch, knotting the thread and leaning back slightly. “You’re done,” I said, voice flat. “Try not to tear them.”
I pulled off the gloves and tossed them into the trash. My palms were sweaty, but my face didn’t show it.
Rafael shifted, slow and deliberate, like the pain hadn’t even touched him. He didn’t wince. He didn’t sigh in relief. He just looked at me. And I hated how my heart stuttered under his gaze.
“Why didn’t you let Nikolai or Yuri do it?” I asked, crossing my arms.
“Because they’ve seen me bleed before.” He leaned back slightly. “You haven’t.”
My mouth tightened. “You brought your wounds to my door to prove something?”
“Maybe.” His eyes stayed on mine. “Or maybe I just wanted to see what you’d do when you realized I don’t break as easily as the men you’ve played before.”
That hit something inside me. A nerve. Something deeper. But I didn’t show it. “I don’t play anyone,” I said. “I win.”
“Not against me.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Pressed between us like a wall neither of us wanted to climb over.
We weren’t friends. We weren’t lovers. We weren’t allies. We were enemies caught in a game that neither of us could walk away from.
He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, blood still staining the skin near the fresh stitches. “But you can admit it,” he murmured. “Part of you wanted me to come here tonight.”
I stepped closer. Slowly. “So I could finish what someone else started?”
He didn’t blink. “So you could finally see what you were really up against.”
I didn’t move. Neither did he. But the space between us buzzed like a wire on the verge of snapping. And somewhere in the pit of my stomach, I knew this wasn’t over. Not even close.
The air between us is still, but the kind that hums with something dangerous.
I watched him. He’s no longer wincing, not even from the sting left behind after the last stitch. Just sitting there, shirtless, blood wiped away, skin taut over muscle and scar—those eyes, darker than they should be, locked entirely on me.
He doesn’t speak. Not yet. Just watches me like I’m some equation he’s trying to solve…or break apart.
My elbow rested against the edge of the couch, hand near the med kit still open, but I haven’t moved for minutes. His eyes dragged down the line of my throat, my chest, not hungrily—but knowingly. Like he already knows how I’d fall apart in his hands. And that pissed me off more than it should.
Finally, he broke the silence, voice low and rough. “What are you thinking about, Isabella?” Not soft. Not curious. Just enough gravel behind it to sound like a warning.
My jaw tensed. “Trying to decide if I should regret not poisoning you while I had the chance.” I say it too evenly, and the corner of his mouth twitched like he liked it. Like he liked me like this.
“Is that what you want?” he murmured, his eyes never leaving mine. “To kill me? Or would you rather I tie you down and fuck every ounce of hate out of you until you’re begging for more?”
My heart punched my ribs, but I didn’t let it show. Not in my eyes. Not in my breath. Just a slow inhale. A slower smirk.