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.”
“That’s right, I remember now. Are you a movie fan?”
His brows draw together. He seems lost in some bad memory, one I know he won’t divulge.
His voice low, he says, “I don’t sleep much. There’s always a movie on TV late at night.”
I get a glimpse of what his day-to-day life must be like. It isn’t pretty.
When I touch his cheek, he glances back at me, startled, pulled back from wherever he went.
“The next time you can’t sleep, call me, okay? We can watch a movie together.”
He searches my face with a look of longing in his eyes, like there’s nothing on earth that would make him happier than to watch the same film over the phone together when he’s away.
But again, he changes the subject, reaching over to pick up the bottle of peroxide.
“Cleaning first. Then stitching. Let’s get this over with so we can get back to the important stuff.”
He squeezes my butt when he says, “important stuff,” so there’s no misinterpreting his meaning. The man is the Energizer Bunny.
We’re both quiet as I gently clean the wound with a peroxide-soaked corner of the towel. There’s a small scrap of material from his shirt caught in the wound, crusted with blood. When I pull it free, he starts to bleed again, so I press down on the gash until the bleeding stops, then keep cleaning.
When I’m done with that, he hands me the needle.
Very seriously, he says, “Don’t be scared if I pass out when you first stick me.”
I’m horrified for a second, until I realize he’s joking.
Muttering under my breath, I get to work.
It’s not as gross as I anticipated. After the first few stitches, I’ve got the swing of it. I don’t take long to finish, and I’m pretty pleased with myself at the results.
“Do I just cut the end of the floss or what?”
“Tie a knot, then cut it.”
I follow his instructions with the knot, but have to get off his lap to go get the scissors in the junk drawer. Then I snip the end and stand back to admire my work.
Apparently, he doesn’t like me standing so far away. He pulls me back onto his lap, this time with both my legs hanging over one side so I’m curled against him, safe in the circle of his strong arms.
He kisses the top of my head. I sigh in contentment. Then I yawn.
His chuckle is a low rumble under my ear. “Am I boring you?”
I smile against his neck and tell him an outrageous lie. “So much. You’re the most boring man on earth. It’s as dull as watching paint dry when you’re around. Speaking of which, how long will you be around this time?”
Stroking a hand over my hair, he says, “At least through the new year.”
Excited, I sit up and look at him. “Really? That long?”
Smoothing my hair away from my face with his hands, he smiles. “You’ll get sick of seeing me.”
I nod, as if this is a real concern. “Probably. A whole week with you…” I shudder. “Ugh.”
“I guess I’ll have to try to be more interesting.”
His eyes smoldering, he picks me up and carries me back to bed.
On the way there, I tell him about my visit from Chris. And even though I don’t want to because I’m afraid of what his reaction might be, I admit that Chris said he showed the sketch of his face to the FBI.
“Don’t worry about that.”
He lays me on the bed and settles the covers over me, then gets into bed on the other side and pulls me against him so we’re spooning. Drawing his legs up behind mine, he inhales deeply against my hair, then wraps an arm around me and kisses the nape of my neck.
“But they’ll be looking for you now. Here.”
“That sketch has already gone missing.”
He rolls over and turns off the light on the nightstand. Confused, I blink into the darkness.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean Deputy Dipshit isn’t the only one with contacts inside the bureau.”
I blink so much, I might as well be signaling in Morse Code. “But…you said if they found out about me—”
“They don’t know anything about you. And we’re going to keep it that way.”
“Chris might tell them, though.”
“Doubtful. He’s in love with you.”
That makes me snort. “Not even close. His ego’s just bruised.”
Kage sighs, stirring the hair on my neck. Clearly, he doesn’t believe me.
“Also…” I cringe. “I might have…sort of…threatened to shoot him.”
After a beat, Kage rears up to an elbow and says loudly, “What the hell did he do? Did that fucker touch you? I’ll kill him!”
His tone is murderous. I can’t help but find that romantic in a twisted sort of way. “No, honey. He didn’t touch me.”
“What did he do, then?”
I think about it for a moment, then tell him the truth. “Basically, he annoyed me.”