Page 67 of The Black Table
I yank myself back.
Come on. No.
I think of boring things. Of scoring matches. Of French verbconjugations. Of fucking anything until the heat of my pulse cools down.
Then I reach for the zipper.
It’s small and fine, and I have to brace my left hand against the top as I pull down with the right to keep it from snagging. But it slides down the extent of her spine easily, all the way to just above her tailbone. She’s wearing a bra, thank the Lord, and her panties are nothing for display. Black, but a practical kind of black that nevertheless makes my throat feel like sandpaper.
I pull back a little, bite my cheek harder, strategize a bit, then gently push her shoulder so that she’s rolled onto her back. From there, I lift her left arm, easing it down and out of the sleeve, and…her skin.
I suck in a breath.
It’s not smooth and pale anymore. It’s kind of…mottled. Rippled. All the way from her wrists to above her elbows.
Like she’s been hurt.
Instinctively, again, I avert my eyes. Like I’ve truly seen something I have no business seeing.
Explains all the long sleeves.
Heart hammering, I delicately repeat the process with her right arm, then peel the top of the dress down to her waist, over her hips, down her legs and off.
The whole time, I train my gaze on the dress itself, the clothing, the bunches of red, the gentlest movements so as not to disturb her. Not to look at what I shouldn’t.
But good God, is it difficult.
There’s just millimeters of this gauzy stuff between my fingertips and the skin over her ribs, her hips, her legs. And heaven knows I’ve been tested before, but this is next level.
Dress removed, finally. I roll it into a ball and throw it on the floor—Valentino be damned; dry cleaning exists. I turn for Lanz’s bureau and rummage through it, extracting the first clean T-shirtand pair of sweats I can find. Then I blow out a low breath and begin the process in reverse, easing the sweatpants up her legs, getting the waistband over her knees, and finally over the crest of her hips, and into place, ignoring the thin, visible strip of black that stays at the top.
The shirt’s more difficult. I have to bunch it up around the neck, so it’s like a ring in my hands, and then sort of shove it over her head, like she’s a giant doll. Guide her arms through, awkwardly, but in her half-conscious state, she helps me along. My breath catches as she gives her shoulder a little shrug, easing the material into place.
If she wakes up, sees me, I’m absolutely fucked. There’s no good explanation for this.
Lanz, sure. Callahan, definitely. Kingston—well, he’d never get himself in this position to begin with.
But me, Kai?
No one would believe me.
I start to pull the hem down, and I’m so focused onnotseeing anything in the kill zone that I can’t help see something else.
Faint, but unmistakable.
A scar. On her chest.
Not an ugly one, like from a car crash. Not even all puckered and painful looking like the ones on her arms.
Two pearly lines, carved right over her heart.
A cross.
“What thefuck,” I say out loud, before I can stop myself. Anger, bitter and hot, surges up my throat. Because that’s not from an accident. Whoever did that wanted to hurt her.
To mark her.
And I want to kill whoever would do that.
