Page 57 of Saving Her

Again, I get a brief glimpse of a smile, the curve of her mouth inspiring a more determined pulse from my dick.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Maybe I’m dealing with more than concussion. I must have brain damage. If not, Decker will soon ensure I do.

But not even the thought of being pummeled to a pulp can deter me from being consumed by her. She’s mesmerizing. From the swell of her lips, to the gentle sweep of her waist, along with everything in between and surrounding.

She isn’t merely beautiful. She’s beauty itself.

“I need a chair to get a better vantage point.” She raises to the tips of her toes. “I can’t see properly from here.”

I don’t hesitate to kneel before her. I want her to know she’s in charge. There’s no threat from me.

For long seconds she peers down at me, as if understanding the underlying message in my submission. Her tension eases another notch. Her muscles lose their rigidity.

I win another square in this back and forth board game of ours.

“I’m not the best at this.” She pulls a needle and thread from the tiny cardboard packet. “I’ve had to give stitches a time or two, but I’m not entirely sure what I’m meant to be doing.”

“I trust you.”

She pauses, the dark depths of her eyes seeming tortured by my admission.

“Just try your best. I can promise you, whatever the result, it will be ten times better than the hack job your brother would give me.”

The mention of her brother snaps her out of the contemplation. Her discomfort returns tenfold.

She backtracks to the sink, cleans the sewing needle with the liquor, then returns to pour the liquid over my wound, bringing another slap of pain-induced clarity.

A wet path trails down my neck, my chest, my back. For all I know, I look like an oiled-up stripper on ladies’ night. But I remain on my knees, keeping silent as she begins to tentatively stitch my wound.

“Tell me if you need me to stop.”

“I’m good.” I actually want her to quit being gentle and just slaughter the ever-loving fuck out of my skull. Her delicate fingers are only causing more issues. The soft brush of her touch is enough to make me twitch. “Does Tobias always float like that?”

She nods. “He could lay there for hours. And some days, he does. I think it’s his form of meditation.”

I lower my voice. “Does he know what happened?”

Her stitching ceases, her fingers paused on my scalp.

“He knows.” She leans back to give me a pointed look. “I told him his father’s death was an accident. That despite how confident and capable Luther was with a gun, it didn’t matter when he stumbled around the edge of the sofa and fell.” She shrugs. “He knows his father shot himself with his own gun.”

I keep my mouth shut, not wanting to dissolve the cease-fire between us by telling her that story won’t hold up for long. Once the shock wears off, the kid is going to realize there were too many gunshots for an accident. It was a fucking battlefield out there.

Then again, maybe that’s her plan—to appease Tobias’s concerns while he’s here, but make him question Cole later.

“What about Chris?” I mouth.

Her face hardens. “He knows the truth about Chris, too.”

I raise a brow, silently asking what truth she’s referring to.

“I told him I killed Chris.” She returns to her stitching, tugging the thread harder than necessary, not subtle at all in her request to cut the topic of conversation.

I don’t push any further. We’ve come a long way in the last hour.

I’ve seen her hope and glimpsed the tiniest bit of her trust.

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