Page 89 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
“I was so scared.”
“Isabel. Look at me.”
He tipped her face up to his. Her eyes were wide and dark.
“I have you,” he murmured. “Let me take care of you.”
She gripped his wrist. “You’ve a talent with a blade, don’t you?”
“Little thief, you—”
“Carve over them,” she said, her breath coming fast. “Reshape the letters into yours. Put your name on me.Please.”
Fuck. Fuck, fuck.
“Sweetheart, after what Favreau just did—”
“Pain I choose, remember? That’s the difference. The only man’s name I want to wear on my skin is yours.” She made a soft noise. “It doesn’t have to mean anything. I’m not asking for promises or—”
“It means something,” he said softly. “To me.” Sighing, he reached for his ankle and slid his blade out of the sheath. “Tell me if you need me to stop.”
Callahan held her stare as he palmed his knife. Patient. Waiting for permission.
“I trust you.” A whisper.
Oh, his heart. She was killing him.
“Deep breath, love.”
And he began to cut into her.
When Callahan was a lad, Whelan used him for wet work. He had a pretty face and a body good for selling, sure, but he was also strong, fast, and good with a knife.
And he never flinched when he mutilated people.
That takes a certain talent, Whelan claimed. Many men could kill and make it brutal, but most didn’t have the talent for the small agonies that made someone cry and yield. They didn’t have a talent forcarving.
Carving, Callahan learned, was a more precise art. It took patience. A strong stomach. Steady hands. Things most lads don’t have. And that’s because when Callahan did Whelan’s dirty work, he wasn’t present. His mind left. It took with it all the complicated emotions like empathy and humanity and tucked them away in favour of survival, because a carving done well meant an entire month of food in his belly. That was how well his expertise paid.
He refused to tuck away those emotions now; he didn’t go to that quiet place in his body.
Callahan wouldn’t leave her. He would stay present. Because she needed both his steady hands and his care.
She neededhim.
Each cut of the dagger was a prayer. A silent litany spilled out in blood, consecrated by pain and the sweet sting of a hurt that healed. With each delicate, deliberate stroke, Callahan unmade Favreau’s brutality. In its place, he planted his own claim – the initials he wanted her to wear not as a brand but as a promise.
They flowed like calligraphy, elegant. This, of all things, deserved to be done well. To be made lovely, even in its savagery.
He splashed away the blood, wiping the canvas clean so he could perfect his masterpiece. Each scar became a story, written in steady strokes.
I love you, his hands said.
I love you, his heart said.
And the years he’d endured under Whelan finally yielded something he could be proud of.
R.
