Page 104 of Ruthless Creatures
“This doesn’t seem like the best position.”
Sinking his fingers into my ass, he leans in and nuzzles my neck. “It does to me.”
“I appreciate the attention, but if you keep distracting me like that, you’re liable to wind up with stitches that look like something Frankenstein’s monster would be proud of.”
“I’m not entering any beauty contests soon, baby. Just clean it off and sew it up.”
“You say that like it’s easy.”
“Because it is. I’ll walk you through it. Pour the peroxide over the wound first.”
I lean closer to inspect it, biting my lip when I see the gash up close.
It’s not gruesome. It’s not even particularly long or large. It is, however, seeping blood, which he doesn’t even seem to be aware of.
He says, “See? I told you. It’s hardly a scratch.”
“How many times have you been shot?”
He thinks for a moment. “Six? Ten? I don’t remember. I always get a tattoo to cover the scar.”
I examine his chest, a glorious canvas of ink overlying an even more glorious network of muscle. The man is walking art.
“Like this one.”
I touch a grinning skull on his left pec, above his heart. There’s a small knot of white scar tissue in the middle of one of the skull’s black eyes. It gives the appearance of a beady little eyeball, peering out with evil intent.
Glancing down at it, Kage says, “It’s a good thing you weren’t around for that. You definitely would’ve passed out.”
“But the scar is so small. Not even the size of a dime.”
“That’s the entry wound. The exit wound in my back was the size of this.”
He looks up and holds up his fist. It’s as big as a grapefruit. I swallow, feeling my stomach turn.
“How did you survive?”
“I almost didn’t.” He shrugs. “But I did.”
He’s so nonchalant about it, like dying is no big deal. Or maybe it’s his own life he thinks is no big deal.
Maybe he doesn’t think it’s worth much.
I flatten my palms over his broad chest and look into his eyes. “I’m glad you did,” I say softly. “I don’t think I’d have ever been happy again if I hadn’t met you.”
Though he tries not to show it, I see how much my words affect him. His eyes flash. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
In a rough voice, he says, “You would’ve met someone.”
“I met a lot of men after David. I even dated a few of them. Nobody ever made me feel like you do. No one made me feel alive.”
Some unidentifiable emotion wells up in his eyes, but he looks away so I can’t tell what it is. I want to ask him what’s wrong, but he abruptly changes the subject.
“I’ll thread the needle for you. Pull the edges of the wound together and start at one end. Don’t pull the stitches too tight or the flesh will die. Don’t go too shallow, or too deep, either. Just make small, evenly spaced stitches. Pretend you’re hemming a dress.”
“A skin dress. How Hannibal Lecter.”
“The skin-dress guy was Buffalo Bill. Lecter was the one who helped Starling catch him.”
