Priya forces her eyes away from my chest. She focuses on the bloody mess of my left shoulder. She reaches out. Her hands are trembling.
She presses her fingertips against the bruised, swollen skin around the bullet hole.
Her touch is too warm. It is blistering. The heat of her fingers sears straight through my muscle and sinks into my bones. The decades of ice surrounding my lungs begins to melt. It hurts. The thaw is pure agony. I clench my jaw. The muscles in my neck bulge.
She pushes gently along the collarbone. Assessing the damage. Checking for infection.
"You should have gone to a hospital. This needs stitches."
Her voice is a breathless whisper. Her professional focus wavers, but she forces her attention back to the wound.
"I don't go to hospitals."
She trails her fingers down my bicep. The touch is unnecessary for a medical exam. She is stalling. She is fascinated. She traces the edge of a jagged scar near my collarbone.
"What is this from?"
"A knife. Ten years ago."
She traces another scar on my ribs.
"And this?"
"A bullet. Five years ago."
Her hand flattens against my chest, over my heart. The heat brands my skin. She looks up. Our eyes lock.
"You’re a violent man."
It is not a question. It is a statement of fact. She is accepting the reality of what I am.
"Yes."
She slides her hand up my chest. Her thumb brushes the base of my throat, over the edge of my tattoo. My pulse hammers against her skin. She knows exactly what she is doing to me.
I have been training myself into a weapon since I was fifteen. I have bled without complaint, and never asked for anything for myself.
I’m taking her.
My right arm shoots out. I wrap my hand around the back of her neck. My fingers tangle in her hair.
Priya gasps.
I pull her forward. I drag her flush against my chest.
She collides with my solid muscle. The rolling stool skids backward, abandoning her. She is forced to brace her hands on my bare shoulders to keep her balance. She is trapped right between my thighs.
I lock my legs around her hips. I squeeze my thighs together, pinning her in place. She cannot step back. She can’t run. She’s engulfed by my size.
I need to feel something solid. I need to know she’s real.
Priya whimpers. The sound is a tiny, desperate vibration in the back of her throat. It is a sound of surrender.
I tilt her head back. My thumb presses into the soft hollow under her jaw. Her pulse is erratic, racing wildly under my thumb. Her eyes are blown wide, staring down at me with a mixture of terror and lust.
"Nico."
A warning. A plea. A prayer.
