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I’m not afraid. I’m fucking terrified.
“Give me the knife.” He continues to walk toward me. I retreat with every step until I find my back pressed to the cold steel of the refrigerator door. My heart thumps in my throat, and I try to swallow it down while sucking in trembling breaths. Too terrified to speak, I merely shake my head at him.
The point of the knife presses against his shirt, and he stops when the knife meets the resistance of his stomach. His large, calloused hand wraps over mine, and he holds the knife firmly against him as he leans toward me. My eyes fixate on the small red stain seeping into the white fabric of his shirt behind the tip of the knife.
“Either give me the fucking knife,” he inches forward and grits his teeth as the blade presses further into his flesh, “or fucking use it.”
I gulp back the rising taste of bile in my throat, a reaction to the nauseating, slick sound of the knife slowly sliding into him. His grip tightens around my hand, squeezing it painfully hard as he forces me to plunge the knife further into him.
“Stop.” The word trembles from my lips.
eleven
RAFAEL
Her lower lip trembles, and her eyes dart between mine and the knife plunging into my flank.
With my hand still firmly wrapped over hers, and around the handle of the blade, I slip the other under her chin and tip her face up to mine. Glaring down at her, we pull the knife from the shallow wound in my gut together as I clench my jaw.
“If you’re going to wield a knife at someone, you better be fucking prepared to use it.” I exhale the words through the pain in my side.
Lifting her hand with mine, I slide the flat of the blade across my already-bloodied shirt to clean it as I stare down into her eyes. Blood trickles down my side, soaking my shirt and dampening the top of my jeans, her eyes are immediately drawn to it when I release her chin. Stepping back from her, I release my grip on hers around the knife. She continues to hold it tightly as it shakes in her shaking hand.
“Keep it, if it makes you feel better, little lamb,” I smirk as I lift my shirt and press a kitchen towel to the seeping wound in my side. “I’m not the least bit worried you’ll use it on me.”
“You’re fucking insane,” she mumbles while slowly backing out of the kitchen.
I tip my head and lightly shrug my shoulders—she’s not wrong. Most men in my line of work are. Sane men don’t exactly enjoy fileting the flesh from another man or setting them on fire.
Holding the towel firmly to my side, I lift my cup and take a generous gulp. She continues to retreat from me with widened eyes, the knife still held fast with her twitching, white-knuckled grip.
“I take it that’s a ‘no’ for the cup of coffee.” I cock a brow when she has nearly reached the hallway. She hesitates for a moment, staring back at me with a slight look of bewilderment spread across her face, before rushing down the hallway. Seconds later, the door to my bedroom slams shut.
Definitely not interested in coffee.
Taking another sip of mine, I place the cup on the counter and peel the towel back from my side to inspect my wound. It’s about an inch wide, but it’s not nearly as deep as Lucia believed it to be.
I’m crazy, not fucking stupid.
Holding the towel tightly to the wound, I make my way to the guest bathroom and dig the first aid kit from under the sink. I carry it back to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of tequila from the bar on my way. Placing both on the counter, I open the kit and remove the cap from the bottle of tequila before threading the suture needle.
I could call Doc, but fuck it.
Peeling off my blood-stained shirt, I drop it onto the kitchen sink with the bloody towel before taking a generous swig of clear, warm liquor. As it burns down the back of my throat, I tip the bottle and pour tequila over my wound causing me to hiss through my teeth, “Fuck!”
Pouring a little tequila over my hands, I pinch the wound shut and push the needle through my flesh to begin my stitches. A few minutes, and numerous expletives later, the bleeding has slowed to almost a stop. I cover it with gauze and tape, before cleaning up the bloody mess left behind.
My pants are as ruined as my shirt, so I strip them off and toss them into the trash with the other bloody rags. Lucky for my little lamb, I won’t need to disturb her since the laundry service just returned my clothes last night. Tearing open the bag, I find another pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Forgoing a shower because of the fresh sutures, I pull them on and go about my day.
Not a sound comes from my bedroom as I make breakfast or even when I knock to let her know that there are sandwiches for lunch. “Food is in the kitchen”
But she doesn’t emerge.
By dinner, I know she must be starving. She hasn’t eaten a thing all day. Still, not a sound from the other side of the door. “You’ll have to come out sooner or later.”
A few hours after nightfall, I hear the first signs of life from down the hall. Based on the cries and whimpers echoing into the main room, I can only guess that Lucia has fallen asleep.
Two Days Later
