Page 109 of Nest of Thieves
“Lark and I will go.” Vette holds his stare. “You take care of Jo.”
“No mercy,” Mac orders.
“Hadn’t planned on offering any. Clean her up.” Vette and Lark nod at me and set off for their car.
Mac’s eyes find mine. They’re cold and deadly, almost predatory. I stare him down, refusing to flinch away from this part of him. He saved me. Mac doesn’t scare me. Not like he should. His attention strays to my shirt.
“Come on, Kitten. Let me clean you up.”
I follow him inside the shop and into the bathroom on shaky legs. My body hasn’t fully recovered from the accident, and when he slams a wooden chair in front of the sink and points at it, I all but collapse into it. Mac grabs the hem of my shirt and slowly lifts it. I sink my teeth into my bottom lip to keep from whimpering and lift my arms, helping him take it off. He tosses it to the ground and stares at my blood-covered torso, body vibrating with rage.
“Mac,” I whisper, brushing my knuckles over his hand.
He doesn’t answer.
Grinding his jaw, he wets a rag, dropping to his knees in front of me. He gently presses the towel to my hip. Mac cleans my biggest wound first, placing a large bandage over it. The cut on my hip isn’t as bad as I thought, just a long scrape, but it’s not deep.
“I don’t think I need stitches,” I murmur.
Mac doesn’t respond. He rinses the bloody rag and starts on my chest. The warm towel presses into my skin, and I hiss, grabbing his wrist and pulling his hand away. I pick a shard of glass from the cut between the top of my breasts. I run my fingers over the other cuts. Three big ones and several tiny ones. No more glass embedded in my skin, though, as far as I can tell.
“Okay.” I release his wrist, and he begins to clean the wound. His eyebrows knit together as he works, hands steady and soft.
Mac crumples the rag in his hand and stares at my chest.
“It’ll scar. I know it’s ugly.” I’ll say anything to hear him talk.
“No.”
I glance down. “I’m pretty sure it will.”
Mac tosses the towel to the floor and drops his hands to my thighs. “Not like that,” he insists. “They don’t get to mark you.”
“Mac—”
His lips crash into mine, and his hands tug on the top of my yoga pants. I lift my hips, and he rises to his feet, shoving my pants down while I grapple with his buckle. He growls into my mouth and uses one hand to rip his shirt off. We break apart long enough for him to undress. We crash together like lightning on a lake. Electricity sparks between us. Mac grabs the back of my thighs, and I jump, clinging to his hard body. He carries me out of the bathroom and into the office, peppering me with kisses and gentle nips.
My essence slicks between my legs, and vanilla perfume fills the room. Mac purrs in approval and drops my ass onto the desk, shoving my legs apart. His cock teases my core, but he reaches behind me, bringing a knife between our chests. I lift my eyes to meet his. Mac grips the dagger; the fat handle is impractical for actual combat, but the black leather wrapped around it is pretty. A smooth pearl is set in the middle of the handle.
Mac places the tip against my skin, right above the first big cut on my chest. A question shines in his disturbed blue irises. I nod, following him down to hell. I lean on my hands to give him better access.
He slices the blade down over the gash and draws an M, brow furrowing as blood spills down my exposed skin. Pain burns through me, but I stay silent, letting him carve his name into my skin, covering the wounds and branding me as his forever. He finishes the C and presses his palm against the cuts. His pulse thrums over mine and my blood coats his hand.
Mac leans his forehead against mine and holds me captive in his gaze. “No one gets to mark you. No one gets to touch you.” The knife’s rounded metal end traces down my slit, swirling over my clit. “You’re mine, Kitten. For better or worse. In life and in death.” He prods my opening with the handle, gripping the base with one hand and sliding his bloodied palm from my chest up to the base of my throat. The knife presses inside of me, coated in my slick.
“You’re mine.” Mac’s lips ghost over mine. “In blood.”
He works the handle inside of me until all that’s left outside is the small section he’s gripping. The smooth pearl rubs against my walls.
“In the dark.” Mac kisses me. “In the light.” He moves the knife faster, squeezing my neck and dragging his lips down my chin and throat. “On earth.” He grabs my lip between his teeth and tugs. “In hell.” Mac thrusts the hilt into me over and over, pressing his forehead to mine and cutting off my air. “Forever.” He thrusts the knife and squeezes.
I can barely breathe, my senses dulling as he denies me air. The lack of air distracts me from any pain I feel.
“And ever.” He twists the knife before pulling it almost all the way out. “And ever.” He pushes it all the way inside, and I moan, clamping my walls around the hilt. Blood drips down my chest, between our bodies, and trickles over my core as if to seal his vow. Withdrawing the knife and the hand from my throat, Mac brings the blade to his mouth and cleans the crimson staining the metal before turning it over and licking the hilt.
I pant, dragging in ragged breaths while his tongue flicks over the knife.
Fuck, that’s hot.
