Page 108 of The Worst Pucking Deal

“Bunny,” I rasp, shaking my head. “You don’t need to bleed every time you answer a question.”

She pushes herself up on her elbows, looking at me with a mixture of concern and fear in her eyes. “This one requires it,” she breathes. “Plus, there’s something else I want you to do.”

“Anything.”

Pushing the knife toward me, she meets my gaze. “I want you to cut over Fabian’s scars.” She licks her lips. “While I answer your question.”

My bunny has come a long way since our time in Rome, but this still feels like she’s pushing it. “You know I don’t care about your scars, right?” I ask, needing her to know I love her the way she is. “It’s part of the story of you, which happens to be a story I’m very fond of. When I say I love you now and always, I mean all of you.”

“Sy,” she sobs.

I lean over her, claiming her lips in a salty, tear-filled kiss. “Don’t do it for me, bunny.”

She shakes her head, her breathing ragged. “It’s not for you.”

“Promise?”

“I promise,” she breathes. “It’s for me. I need it.”

As long as I know it’s not for me, I have no problem giving her what she wants. I finally accept the knife, pressing it against the soft skin on her inner thigh. I do my best to line it up perfectly against the top scar. My eyes find hers, but instead of asking if she’s sure, I nod. Then I add pressure and slide the knife along the old wound.

“Do the next one,” she begs, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Eyes on me,” I demand.

The moment she opens her eyes, and her green eyes find my dark ones, I re-open the second scar. I don’t need her to tell me to keep going, I continue until I’ve made eight shallow cuts on her left thigh. The only time I look away is when I need to position the knife, but other than that, we keep our gazes on each other.

“T-thank you,” she stutters on a heavy exhale as she lies back down on the bed. Deciding to give her a few minutes to compose herself, I run my hand through the blood dripping down her leg, smearing it across her skin.

The sharp and metallic smell of the blood clings to my nostrils, and assaults my senses. The aroma mixes with the smell of sex and my wife, making it more appealing than it should be. To me, blood isn’t just a reminder of the fragility of life, or the rawness of human existence. I’ll forever associate it with my bunny, how strong and amazing she is.

“D-do the other leg,” she whispers, her voice barely audible.

Since I anticipated it, I’m not surprised. But I’m not doing it unless she’s with me one hundred percent. “Sit back up,” I urge. “And look at me, bunny.”

As soon as she’s pushed herself back up, I make the cuts on top of the old ones on her right thigh. This time I do it quicker, sensing that she wants it over with rather than dragging it out.

Re-opening my wife’s old wounds seems oddly right. Especially after I made sure her piece of shit ex felt every single slash he made into her skin all those years ago. Unlike the care I use now with Lucia, the cuts Fabian received were brutal and painful. I made sure the fucker felt everything before he took his last breath.

“Hey.” The sound of my sweet bunny’s voice brings me back to reality. “Where did you go?” she asks, reaching out so she can run her hand down my cheek.

“Nowhere,” I reply, shaking my head. I don’t enjoy lying to Lucia ever, but especially not when we do our moments of truth. Yet, I refuse to tell her what I was thinking about. But only because I don’t want to taint what we share.

She narrows her eyes in that way that tells me she knows precisely what I’m not saying. Instead of calling me on it, she tilts her head to the side. “Ask me your question.”

Palming her thighs, I meet her gaze. “Why the hell did you invite my mom to come visit us?”

Pursing her lips, she takes a minute to answer. “Because you weren’t going to.” Then she sighs and pushes herself all the way up so she’s sitting instead of leaning. Knowing how much her skin must be burning, I grab her hips and lift her into my lap so she’s sitting sideways. “I know you want to see her, Sy. But I also know you’re too stubborn to do anything about it.”

“But I—”

My wife carries on, paying no attention to me. “And you’ve been talking about her in your sleep. Plus, I’ve seen you wake up and go into the room with the pictures. You miss her, Sy. I knew if I asked you, you’d say no. So I decided it was better to ask for forgiveness instead of permission.”

“Did you now,” I growl. “And what exactly is it you imagine we’ll all be doing?”

Turning her head, she presses her lips against my chest. Her warm breath tickles, causing my skin to pebble. “I don’t know,” she murmurs. “And if you don’t want her here, I’ll kick her out myself. But I think you do want her here.”

My wife isn’t wrong. Annoyingly, she rarely is. Ever since Mickey called me on my bullshit, my mom has been on my mind. More so since we returned from Italy. Taking Lucia’s hand, the one with the wedding band my mom once wore, I bring it to my lips and gently kiss it.

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