“Unless you want these stabbed in your eye, I suggest you sit still.” She snaps together the stainless steel tweezers she’s been using to remove slithers of glass from my wounds, unaware they’re the prefect instrument for that exact job.
“Without pain, there is no pleasure.” Heat skates through my body hard and fast when her knees curve inward at my reply.
Although she’s clearly affected by my accurate statement, she maintains a cool head. That might have more to do with the fact Ms. Aaronson is eyeballing our exchange like she’s the head surgeon of my heart transplant.
If she is, she’s wasting her time.
I don’t have a heart.
Once Justine has half a dozen shards of glass sitting in a makeshift surgeon’s dish most people would call a soap dish, she places down the tweezers so she can inspect her handywork. Her face is whiter than it was earlier, but her eyes remain bright.
She’s halfway through her assessment when Ms. Aaronson thrusts a three strip of Band-Aids into her face. “Better cover up the wounds to stop any nasties,” she whistles through her false teeth.
I groan as my dick softens. I can feel blood dribbling down my face, but there’s no chance in hell I’ll ever wear a Band-Aid.
When I say that, Justine’s eyes rocket back to mine, stunned by the menace in my tone. “It’s just a Band-Aid.”
“Exactly,” I snap back, my voice one I haven’t used the past hour. “It's a fucking Band-Aid. I don’t do Band-Aids.”
Unaware this is a fight for two, Ms. Aaronson butts in, “If we don’t cover the wound, it will scar.”
I’m about to tell her I don’t give a fuck if it’s capable of healing my black soul, I’m not wearing it, but Justine’s quick rip of the material surrounding the Band-Aid stops me.
Acting oblivious to the threat I know she sees in my eyes, she snags a pen from the coffee table, pulls the Band-Aid out of its packaging, then jots something down on the no longer sterile strip.
When she pivots the Band-Aid around to face me a few seconds later, I forget we have company when I read what she wrote across the brown strip.
Bad boy.
What did I tell you? The good girls always want the bad boys.
Confident she’s subdued the moody beast inside of me, Justine mutters, “Now it’s not just a Band-Aid. It is a kick ass accessory anymanwould be proud to wear.”
Although I’m always up for an argument, the fact she called me a man weakens the desire. With most of the men in my industry decades older than me, for years, I was known as the kid. That all changed when my knife showed them how much I hated it. I didn’t have a childhood, so how could anyone give me a childish nickname?
Justine sucks in a relieved breath when I jerk up my chin, granting her permission to place the Band-Aid on the gash above my left brow. I don’t usually give in, but there’s a flare in her eyes advising she’ll pay restitution for my agreeance before dawn.
It, along with my cock, would have me agreeing to anything.
Once Justine has the Band-Aid in place, I shift my eyes to the mirror on the other side of the living room. I stare at myself, lost as to who is peering back at me. It isn’t the brown sterile strip stretched across my brow deceiving my mind. It is the light in my eyes. They’re usually black pools of death. Tonight is the first time they’re appeared the color of the coolness that slides through my veins.
My eyes return to Justine when she asks, “Have you never worn a Band-Aid before?” Her voice is low, panicked as to how I will reply.
My racing heart can be seen in the flutter of the pulse in my neck, but its fast beat isn’t necessarily in anger. I’m more confused than anything.
When Justine arches her brow, patiently awaiting my answer, I say, “No, I haven’t. My father believes scars are medals and dressing wounds is for the weak.”
I learned fast not to hide the scars Vladimir gave me as a child or he would have given me ones I couldn’t hide. Wearing scars on my sleeves saved them from being worn on my face.
“Is that why you wear these with pride? To prove your strength?”
The light in Justine’s eyes fade when I trace my fingertip over a faint scar on her shoulder. It’s larger than the tiny one on her neck, and covered with a generous amount of concealer.
“My scars have nothing to do with courage, Nikolai.” Justine closes the first aid kit with a snap before standing from her seat. “I have them because a man as hideously misguided as your family wanted to teach me a lesson.”
My back molars smash together, but Ms. Aaronson thunderous balk keeps my response hidden from Justine. “They were put there against your wishes?”
I stare at Justine, silently begging for her to deny Ms. Aaronson claim, to say she wasn’t marked by another. A car accident, a boating incident, a wayward fucking missile, I’ll take any of those excuses over Ms. Aaronson assumption she was deliberately hurt. If I find out her scars were manmade, my hitlist will be endless. I won’t just take down the man responsible for her marks. His entire family will become extinct.
