Page 68 of Crossbones
“Sit,” I mutter.
Caspian settles on the edge of the table and turns his side to me. I make the first stitch, then another—
“You said you weren’t going to be a liability,” I grumble.
He huffs a laugh; the movement making me hyper-aware of how close we are and the feel of his skin shifting under my fingers makes it hard to focus.
“Says the man who I had to save twice today,” he teases.
The dagger.
I do a few more stitches—the silence growing heavy and palpable between us. He’s staring straight ahead, refusing to look at me, even though I can tell every touch of my fingers is doing something to him. Every few stitches his abs bunch, as he processes the pain.
“I wish I could have been the one to do it,” I say quietly.
I can feel his eyes turn to me. But my attention stays firmly on the wound.
“We all have our demons to slay,” he says. “And he was mine.” He shrugs and then remembers I have a needle in my hand and stops. “Mostly I just feel relief.”
“That he can’t touch you anymore,” I say, thinking of my own vendetta. I concentrate on tying off the thread. I grab a cloth and slowly run it over the sutures, wiping away the residual blood. His breath hitches. He covers it up with a sound of affirmation.
“Aye,” Caspian agrees. He slides off the table—opening his mouth to say something, I watch his eyes narrow as they snag on my neck.
“Your turn,” he grumbles. “Sit.”
I touch my neck, feeling where the dagger caught me. The dagger he made sure didn’t kill me. I slowly trade places with him. He ends up between my thighs, his fingers going to the top of my vest and jacket. Mouth in a firm line, he seems bent on not looking up at my face as he unbuttons the top few buttons to reveal the cut. I watch him, his eyes betraying him as he peels back my shirt.
“Fucking coward, trying to take you out with a dagger in your back,” he growls.
I’m at a loss for what to say—the intensity in his eyes rips away my words.
Caspian grabs a clean strip of cloth and after sanitizing it with the alcohol, slowly trails it across the cut that runs from my shoulder, across my collarbone and ends a few inches up my neck. The first pass has me gripping the edge of the table, the second makes my breathing pick up until I know he can tell. The third—and the tension begs for relief between us.
Caspian clears his throat quietly. “It doesn’t need stitches.”
He goes to start another pass with the cloth and I grab his wrist.
“Caspian.” My voice is nothing more than a rasp of barely contained need.
“Hmm?” Caspian risks a glance up at me.
Our eyes clash and his shutter, betraying how touching me is affecting him. My heart is pounding in my chest, my body strung so tight with anticipation I can hardly breathe properly. He absentmindedly licks his lips—my eyes involuntarily drop at the action. This is different from the moment in the brothel but no less electric. I never thought I’d find myself here—wishing the gap would close between us. Thinking that maybe I want to taste him—
I’m finding myself inching forward, slowly closing the space separating us. My finger ghosts over his wrist and his breath hitches.
The door slams open and it’s like a bucket of freezing cold seawater dumps over us.
We both pull back.
“Sorry it took me so long—” Van trails off as Caspian steps away from between my knees.
I reluctantly let go of his wrist, feeling the emptiness as he steps away. Van’s head is tilted andhis gaze flickers between us a few times. His hands are full of medical supplies.
“Thanks, Van,” Caspian clears his throat. “You can just, uh, put it on the table.”
The room descends into awkwardness as Van puts everything down. He hesitates, but we’re both staring at him and he edges back towards the door.
“That’ll be all Van, thank you,” Caspian says, his voice tight with irritation.
