Page 104 of Kept in the Dark
Hovering at the end of the bed, I watch her sleep. I listen to her even, unworried breaths. My desire builds with each rise and fall of her chest.
I am sick for this. Sick for wanting her now, this way.
It takes enormous effort to drag my eyes away, but eventually I manage, closing myself in the bathroom and retrieving the well-used first aid kit from the drawer in the vanity.
32
Nicole
Florence Nightingale and the Grim Reaper.
A sharp noise like glass against metal jerks me awake, shaking me abruptly into a strange, confused kind of consciousness. I fumble on the bedside table for a second, then place my glasses on my face and check the red numbers on the clock. 4 AM.
The light in the bathroom spills out in a perfect rectangle from the spaces around the door, and the sound of running water nearly drowns out the voice within. I would recognize that low, fluid speech in a crowded room, even though I have no idea what he’s saying. I downloaded Duolingo on the new cell phone he bought me, but I haven’t made it very far yet.
I knock. “Dimitri?”
The water cuts, then déjà vu hits me like a train as the door opens, revealing an enormous expanse of bare chest and a stormy expression. Only this time, it clears, shifting into something much softer when he sees me. I wince, turning away from the bright light.
“Nicole,” he murmurs with an air of sheepishness. “I did not mean to wake you. Go back to sleep.”
When I try to see past him into the bathroom, he shifts to block my view. But I still notice the med kit sitting out, and the new bandage on his right hand. Next to a red-brown smudge on the counter, there’s a pair of tiny scissors lying on top of a pad of gauze—clearly, he decided it wastime to remove the stitches and butterflies from his weeks-old gunshot wound while he had it out to treat his hand.
My stomach flops. Where was he tonight? How did he get hurt? Obviously, he was trying to keep it from me—to take care of it himself. The knowledge twists up inside me, making me feel awful, like it’s my fault he didn’t come to me.
Did he not want to wake me, or did he not want me to see and ask questions?
I decide to test that. “You’re taking out the rest of your stitches? Want some help?”
When he doesn’t answer right away, I return my attention to him and find his eyes glued to the bare skin exposed by my nightgown. I’ve always liked silky things, and sleeping in pants makes me feel like I’m being strangled. So this thin-strapped, mid-thigh, semi-transparent satin dress has become a favorite.
His chest rises and falls in short bursts, like his breath quickens with a racing heart. Seeing his reaction, my body is instantly awake, tingling and warm between my legs. Our suspended moment of longing ends abruptly as he jerks a nod and turns away.
He settles himself on the counter and leans back towards the mirror. His eyes remain locked on something on the ceiling as I approach and glove up to examine the area.
The stitches can definitely come out. It’s silly, since I’m the one who set his healing back, but I’m proud of how well and neatly the wound has closed.
So, when he goes rigid as I gently place my hand on his side, I know it’s not because of any pain. The fabric of his pants in his lap shifts, and he covers the area with his free arm, which nearly puts it in my way.
“What happened?” I ask softly.
“I killed Viktor Volkevich tonight.”
My stomach flops, and bile rises in the back of my throat, along with a dozen questions. Worry mingles with every other emotion, weaving through them until it saturates every thought. I know it’s an unusual reaction, but every discarded curiosity about what happened—who, where, why, when—is second to one horrifying possibility.
What if he’s caught?
When I say nothing in response to his revelation, his eyes search my face, desperate and wild. His expression is pinched tight, like he expects judgment, rejection, disgust. But I don’t feel… any of that. I feel angry that he was in danger and he didn’t tell me, and confused about my own reactions. And for the first time in a while, hopeful.
Hopeful and desperately sad about it.
“The USB?” I ask, breathless. I hate the words as I speak them, but I have to know.
“Wesley is working on it. We should have answers in the morning.”
The silence that stretches after that statement feels heavy and sour. He won’t meet my eyes, and every line of his body is filled with tension that has nothing to do with the gentle pull of my fingers at a healed wound.
“Are you… okay?”
