Page 13 of Pragma
His phone vibrates again. He picks it up to check the screen, and then calls Soma—someone needs to leave the crate for the Triad to find tonight.
When he is done, he tells me to take off my shirt to check the wound. I unbutton the waistcoat and take it off, placing it on the chair. Next I pull the Henley from the waistband of my pants while I ask him, “Who’s the Prey Master?” I try to keep an indifferent tone. Aki continues getting notifications from that person; I’ve seen the name on his phone before and again now.
His hands suddenly land on my skin, trailing up my sides, turning my body rigid. I don’t let anybody touch me, not even when I have sex. Because of my burns, thirty percent of my skin is far from smooth. I don’t like people to look at me with questions in their eyes—I already get that because of my face on a daily basis.
But this time, it is Aki doing the touching. His palms push up the fabric of my Henley, moving up over one arm, freeing it from the garment, then going to the other. Light fingers keep slowly brushing over my scars covered in ink, then I feel them around my neck to undo the two buttons there. His moist breath is between my shoulder blades, his warm body so close to mine.
The shirt is off and on the floor next. My fist flexes and balls up as I try to stop my body from trembling. When he pulls away, I can finally breathe again, even though the sudden disappearance of his hands on me feels ice cold. Almost unbearable. Fucking hell, I need to get a grip.
He grabs his whisky glass again, the disinfectant, and bandage, and tells me to sit. I walk to the sofa and drop down on the comfortable cushions. He puts the glass on the coffee table after taking a sip from it, and then kneels next to me, laying the rest of the stuff on the sofa.
“Give me your back.” I follow his order and adjust my position to show him my injury. He pulls at the skin near the wound, making me hiss.
“It stopped bleeding. It’s not deep. No glue needed. You were lucky.” He sounds angry again. Protecting him is my job, and it’s not the first time I’ve gotten hurt while doing it.
I feel a cold liquid falling over the wound before the hellish burn hits me. I growl as I realize he poured the whisky on it and turn my head to glare at him.
“Did you want me to count to three?” He sounds all innocent, so why bring the disinfectant? He uses it next. I feel the burning liquid dropping down on my already aching injury.
“Fucking hell, Aki!”
He keeps going, sticking the bandage over the wound as indelicately as humanly possible. This happens every time. I get hurt, and he gets annoyed at me like it’s my fucking fault. Moving between him and a sharp object is what I’m here for; he shouldn’t be taking it out on me when I do it properly.
As soon as I turn my head back forward, Aki pulls the elastic band from my hair and ties it up again, but this time in a ponytail. He always does it when we are alone. He told me once it’s because he likes to see my face. So simple, yet filled with such a profound meaning for me. The mere act sucks all my anger away—well, most of it.
“Dry my hair,” he says next, and my glare is back. Ordering me around with petty tasks means he’s still annoyed at me. He’s such a complex fucker. I’m not expecting a thank-you, fuck that. But even a head tilt would suffice.
“No, homicidal bunny.” He has the gall to use a scolding tone. “Your big hands do a quicker job.”
That doesn’t even make sense. “You are so spoiled,” I grumble.
“And who’s fault is it?” He raises a perfectly arched eyebrow at me.
It’s faster to do what he wants than initiate a nonsensical banter with him. “Hairdryer?” I ask.
He shrugs, his attention on the TV again. I go to the bathroom on the second floor to get it—the mess he was capable of making in less than ten minutes is incredible. On my way back, I stop in his bedroom to get a clean Henley. There’s extras for me, but Aki bought extravagant ones with bold colors and weird-as-shit prints—again just to fuck with me.
When back in the living room, I throw the horrifying shirt on a chair and plug the hairdryer into the outlet near the sofa. I grab the towel from around his neck and start stroking his hair with it quite roughly. He doesn’t complain, instead he relaxes completely. I drop the towel on the table to turn the hairdryer on and direct the hot air at his head.
The smell of his body wash hits my nostrils. Osmanthus is an Asian plant that blooms only for a few days in autumn. Its fragrance is sweet and fruity, but on Aki, it acquires an aphrodisiacal, intoxicating quality. I thread his black locks through my fingers, exploring the thickness and softness. I like the feel of his shaved lower scalp against my hand, it makes my palm tingle.
“You say I’m spoiled every time you dry my hair, and yet you keep doing it,” he states after a while, raising his voice over the dryer’s noise.
I huff, carding my fingers through some strands and then pulling them a little too hard.
“Brute!” he complains, tilting his damp head all the way back, pressing it against my bare abs, to look me in the eye.
“My heart bleeds,” I reply sarcastically.
He lets out a loud chuckle, and after grabbing my wrist, he pulls me toward the sofa. I let him, turning the hairdryer off and sitting next to him.
He quickly buries his head in my shoulder, nose nuzzling my neck. He usually does it when he needs some grounding, some comfort. His title of yakuza heir brings with it a lot of pressure and constant wariness—even from inside the organization. He’s been under a critical microscope all his life. Some of the otherfamilies are still waiting for him to take a false step, to steal his rightful place. That is why at times he lets his guard down and leans on me when everything becomes too unbearable.
“Don’t move. I need to breathe,” he says softly, making my insides break and melt with his few words.
His nearness, his smell are doing things to my body,thingsI need to keep in check. I’d jump straight into the flames for him—I was already burned literally and emotionally before I met him—but this could turn me into ashes. So instead of imagining lowering my head and capturing those plump lips, I force myself to remember, step by step, how I take my gun apart and clean it. I close my eyes and pretend I’m in my apartment, sitting at the kitchen table, the cold metal heavy under my palms. My hands twitch on my knees as if they are moving with my memory.
My heart is finally slowing down when I feel his fingers lacing with mine. The scarred ones. Another simple act that makes my breath faster for a moment. I remind myself that Aki does everything lightly, without thinking about meanings or consequences.
