Page 55 of Nemesis
He shook his head, huffing out a heavy sigh, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Oh, I’m sure you are.”
Still holding my hand in his, he grabbed a clean rag and put pressure on the cut as he tugged me to him, leading us into the narrow bathroom. It definitely wasn’t made for two people, like the rest of this house apparently.
He pushed me against the counter, looming over me to reach behind my head and open the cabinet above the sink. He then pulled out a clear plastic bottle and brought my arm to the sink, placing my hand right above it.
“This might sting a little,” he warned before bending down and pouring a cold solution to the cut across the center of my palm.
I hissed at the uncomfortable sting. This was why I didn’t cook. Apparently, I was able to hold a knife to injure others, but not skillful enough to cut fucking vegetables.
He muttered to himself before glancing back at me. “It’s a little deeper than I thought. You’re gonna need stitches,” he stated.
“No, I do—”
He stood to his full height abruptly, halting my thoughts. Before I got the chance to ask what he was doing, he gently placed my hand on the edge of the sink once again and left the room, leaving the door slightly ajar on his way out.
He came back a few seconds later with a small black bag and a bottle of whiskey in hand. He closed the door behind him and brushed past me, reaching for the toilet’s lid. He closed it before gesturing for me to sit on top of it.
Stitches meant needles and I strongly disliked needles. “I’m sure this is unnecessary,” I muttered, hoping he would just wrap a bandage on it and call it a day. No need for all these dramatics.
“Sit.”
His commanding tone pushed my feet to move and obey. He went down on his knees and opened the black bag, took out the supplies and laid them on the counter. He then propped himself up on one knee and put my injured hand on his thigh.
He was close,soclose, his body pressed against mine, our breaths mingling in the enclosed space. Overwhelmed by his proximity, I closed my eyes. The sound of a packet ripping open filled the quiet space. I sucked in a sharp breath, pulling back in anticipation.
He whispered a quiet sorry as I tried to breathe through the burning sensation scorching down my throat. My brain had barely registered his apology when I felt a slight pinch before pain sliced across the center of my palm, shooting straight through my arm. My other hand automatically shot at him, clutching his shoulder,hard.
My eyes snapped open and I saw him hunching over, stitching the small wound closed. His eyes glanced at my hand on his shoulder before he zeroed his attention back on me, watching me intently.
“Angel,no te muevas,” he said, his tone apologetic. The term of endearment coming out so naturally, I didn’t think he’d realized he’d said it.
“Drink this,” he ordered, handing me the bottle of whiskey. I removed my hand from his shoulder, took it from him, and brought the rim to my lips. I took a swig, the familiar burn temporarily distracting me from the pain.
I groaned and focused my gaze on his face as I watched him work, forcing myself to stop wincing every time he sewed my skin closed.
Minutes stretched to what felt like hours and I tried to concentrate on his stitching, but our faces were inching closer by the second and I could feel his breath sweeping across my skin on each exhale.
I should have been focusing on the needle pushing its way across my skin layers, but the only thing that was swarming my senses was his knee brushing against mine, the feel of his thigh straining under my hand, the warmth of his skin branding me where our bare skin connected.
Intoxicated by his proximity, my mind started wondering, imagining how it would feel if every inch of our skin touched, his strong thighs pinning me down while his hands brandished me with his marks.
I shifted and inhaled sharply, his warm and spicy scent warping my senses.
Ya basta,Sofia.
“Olivia,” he whispered painfully as if he were the one who had a needle piercing his skin. Coming out of my thoughts, I lifted my head, our gazes locking.
“I’m done.”
He didn’t release my hand right away, keeping it resting on his thigh. He continued staring at me while his other hand reached for the loose strand of curl on my face, moving it behind my ear.
Breathe, Sofia.
He began to stand, bringing me up with him, our bodies now flush together, the hard planes of his body resting against my soft ones. My injured hand was trapped between us, and he slowly trailed his other hand down until they rested against my waist, his fingers slightly digging into my hip.
My other hand found his shoulder once again in order to steady myself from his dizzying proximity. He dropped his head, his forehead slightly grazing mine. Before I had a chance to process what was happening, the moment came to an abrupt halt as he pulled back, his features back to stone.
“You should shower,” he said pointing to my bloody clothes. Kneeling, he gathered the supplies, throwing away the soiled material. I watched him clean his hands and before he replaced the items into his kit, he cut a piece from the rolled gauze.
