Page 117 of Velvet Corruption

“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-emptybottle 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.

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