Page 145 of Beautiful Scars

My eyes flicker open and then widen. The tip of the knife is pressing into his abdomen. The flesh is denting in, but the tip hasn’t penetrated his skin yet. When I look up, his eyes are hooded.

“You’ll have to press harder than that,” he says, and then wraps one big hand around mine.

Blood trickles down his skin.

I should be pulling my hand back, but instead I push the knife a little harder. A tiny bit deeper. My heart’s in my damn throat, choking me, denying me air. Kill’s dark green eyes flicker, his lips parting.

“Give me the key,” I murmur, and push the knife in a little deeper. There’s barely a quarter inch in him, but my chest feels like it’s about to collapse in on itself. I don’t think I can push it in any deeper.

Instead, Kill reaches past me. There’s a clatter of metal on metal, and then I hear the tumblers falling into place as he turns the key. He looks down. “The girl that gutted Cillian Hendry.” His eyes lock on me again. “Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

I step forward. He hurriedly steps back. I don’t know if it’s confusion or surprise that flashes over his face, but it’s gone before I can analyze him a second longer. “You deserve nothing less,” I whisper.

“Aye.”

Blood roars through my ears.

Another step forward. Cillian steps back. The trickle of blood has reached the top of his pants, turning the black fabric shiny wet.

If I may be so bold,Trish says.You appear to be headed in the wrong direction, Meisie.

Shut. The. Fuck. Up.

“You had no right.” Another whisper.

“Aye.”

“You can’t control everyone all the time. Especially me.” Another step forward.

It takes him longer this time, but he eventually agrees. I walk him all the way back into the living room like that—one step forward while he takes one back. He pauses, leaning away from the tip of the knife when his legs hit the couch.

“Sit.” I tell him.

The knife snags on the hem of his shirt as he lowers himself onto the couch. I touch the tip against his Adam’s apple, fascinated as I watch him take a hard swallow.

There’s something seriously wrong with my head. Logic, reason, common sense, they’re all shrieking at me to turn and run out the door. But intrigue, curiosity, and the part of me that melts when Kill gets close, they’re fighting back. They want to know why he unlocked that door. Why he held the knife steady when he could so easily have knocked it out of my hand.

Curiosity wins.

But fuck, doesn’t it always?

I scrape the knife down the front of his throat. Not hard enough to leave a mark, but when he stiffens, goosebumps break out over my skin. I drag the knife over his top button. “Open,” I murmur.

The tiniest frown creases the skin between his eyes. But he does as I say and twists open the button. I move the knife down to the next button. “Open.” His fingers follow the path of the knife, but he moves his hand away when I use the knife to flick apart the two halves of his shirt.

“Where do you want my scar?” I scrape the knife over his skin. “Here?”

He’s silent, eyes locked on mine as I leave a few more scratches in his skin.

“Here? Or here? What do you think, Kill? Where will my scar look the prettiest?”

When he doesn’t humor me with a response, the anger comes back. And I almost leave. But for some reason, leaving marks on his perfect muscles, his already scarred torso made me a little wet. And this is the first time I’ve ever had the upper hand with him.

Maybe it’s time I took whatIwanted.

I tap the sharp point against his belt buckle. “Off.”

Now there’s no mistaking the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “What are you—”