Page 16 of Venomous Throne

Chapter 8 – Isabella

Iflicked the light in my kitchen on. The mountain referenced strays at the club. Well…he acted like one now, standing in the back doorway, looking like this was the first home he’d ever been inside.

“Come in, come in,” I said, waving my hand. “Quit letting the AC out.”

“Sorry,” he muttered.

Santi! His voice was deep. Gruff. Kinda sexy in a rough way. It lacked polish and refinement, something I found myself instantly liking.

“We never introduced ourselves,” I said, filling the silence as I searched under the kitchen sink for the well-stocked first aid kit. “I’m Isabella.”

There was a pause, where I didn’t think he would tell me his. But then the single word came out as a guttural rush of air.

“Jaxon.”

I groaned under my breath. Dio! Even his name was sexy and mysterious. I had it bad, and I’d spent all of ten minutes in this man’s company, including the grocery store!

“Alright, Jaxon. Well, welcome to my home. Take a seat on the stool and let me see what we’re dealing with.” I set the equipment on the island and began laying the pieces out.

The gash was deep. Dark blood leaked from the cut. And he thought he was going to fix it himself? He would have to be a contortionist to reach and stitch this.

Forcing my stomach to quit churning, I gingerly stretched his forearm out. The clotted areas began crying in earnest. Red tears stained the marble counter. I spent a few seconds cleaning the arm with gauze and saline, but thankfully I didn’t have to irrigate the gash. As far as I could see, there were no chunks of glass inside the wound. Splashing iodine on the skin around the wound—accidentally dropping a bit inside, which I wasn’t supposed to do—I searched for the local anesthesia.

“Just a prick, and then it will feel better,” I began, holding up the needle.

“No.”

I blinked and lifted my gaze.

Clouds of grey swirled in his irises. The color of a summer storm.

“I can’t stitch you without numbing it,” I said in a rush. “It will hurt!”

“Stitch.”

I hesitated, needle poised between my fingers. Those storm-grey eyes never wavered, challenging me to argue further. With a sigh, I gave in.

“Fine. Your funeral.”

I threaded the curved needle with practiced movements. Taking the hemostat in one hand, I reached for him. I tried and failed to ignore how his muscles felt beneath my fingertips; they were a momentary distraction from the gruesome task before me. The first puncture through his skin made me wince, but Jaxon remained utterly still. No sharp intake of breath, noflinching, not even a twitch as I pulled the thread through and created the first stitch.

Blood continued to seep around my work, forcing me to dab it away with gauze. Still, he sat like a statue, his breathing measured and controlled. I glanced up at his face, his jaw clenched, eyes fixed on some distant point over my shoulder, but otherwise betraying nothing of the pain I knew he must be feeling.

“Most people at least curse a little,” I half laughed, half choked.

“Have you stitched the wounds of many poor souls, beautiful?” he murmured.

Dio, that word!

I was a hot mess after my morning and then the chaotic afternoon at the bar. Beautiful? Men thought I was pretty. Like predators, they wanted to own me like a trophy. But there was reverence in the way this man said it. It wasn’t an insult, more like a matter of fact.

“Haven’t stitched one,” I rambled. “But there was this one cat that came around. I tried to take the prickles and burs off its coat. It scratched me so badly that I had to get antibiotics. Then the next time it came….”

My voice trailed off.

Unbidden emotions threatened to rise to the surface.

Jaxon covered my hand with his, pausing my work. “The next time?”