Page 48 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
A pause, then a mute jerk of her chin.
Callahan soaked a rag in the tepid water in his room’s basin and took the tin of salve out of his bag. Gently, he peeled the cloth off her torso.
“This was close,” he said. “Luck seems to like you.”
“Luck isn’t a word I’d use to describe my existence thus far, Agent.”
“You’re still breathing, aren’t you?”
“For now.”
The rain beat harder outside. Callahan worked in silence, his fingers tracing a path around her injury, then the other marks – the faded lines on her stomach. Some were thin, others raised and jagged.
“How many of these were heists, and how many were Favreau?” he asked, following a mark curving over her hip.
“My scars aren’t up for discussion.”
Right. He knew when not to push.
The silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant slap of waves against the hull. He tended to her carefully – cleaned the wound, applied the salve, and added a fresh bandage. When he finished, he secured the end with a small knot.
“There. Should hold till morning.”
She angled her chin at his shoulder. “Your turn. Let me see my handiwork.”
Callahan held her gaze as he removed his shirt. He wasn’t shy about his body, but something about the way she watched him made his fingers clumsy. His body had scars layered on scars until there was barely an inch of skin that wasn’t filled with bullet holes, knife wounds, burns, and lash marks from Whelan’s belt. Each one was a reminder of the endless bartering of blood, the slow erasure of self.
Annihilation, one scar at a time.
“We match,” she whispered. “Don’t we?”
Yes.
They were both fluent in the language of brutality and life’s cruelties. The singular agony of knowing how it feels when your body belongs to someone else.
She focused on his shoulder. “Impressive needlework. The stitches are nearly invisible.”
“Lady Alexandra patched me up. All those years embroidering pillows finally put to practical use.”
He grabbed a roll of fresh linen, tore a strip with his teeth, and began rebinding the wound. He’d performed this ritual a hundred times, in a hundred rooms, but never with an audience. Never with every vulnerability laid bare.
“So,” Isabel said, leaning against his pillow as if she belonged there, “am I to be your prisoner for the remainder of our voyage to Boston?”
Callahan tucked the end of the bandage, then looked up at her. Something dark and hungry unfurled in him at the sight of her naked in his bed.
He moved before he could think better of it, crawling toward her until he had her caged against the headboard, his arms braced on either side of her. Her thighs fell open.
“Are you asking to be cuffed again, Trouble?” he asked.
Her exhale was shaky. “No.”
“No?” He smiled. “I thought you had deviant tastes. Wasn’t that what you told me in Athens when you tried to shock me with this vulgar mouth?” He grazed a finger over her lower lip.
“Maybe you’re more depraved than I am.”
“Am I? Because I think that one day, you’ll offer me these wrists and beg me to bind them.”
“Is that what you think?” Her voice was teasing. “That I’ll wake up desperate to be at your mercy?”
