Page 16 of Cut Deeper

The muscles began to give way. A dull pop signalled the dislocation.

I closed my eyes as Tchaikovsky came on.

When I opened them, Eva’s jaw hung limp. I laughed, delighted.

So wonderful. Beautiful.

I began to clean the wounds—enough to clear the blood so I could work clearly—then fed the curved needle in and out of her cheek, using both hands to keep the edges even. The hours I’d spent practising on silicone had never been satisfying. Derelict buildings had served me better in those early years; real flesh, real adipose tissue, the needle finding its own rhythm in a way silicone never allowed.

I reached the corner of her lip and double-stitched it. It would hurt more when stretched, but that was rather the point.

Bright lights. Music. Gareth sniffling. Eva stitched and silent.

Anne.

My lips tightened. I left the needle in Eva’s cheek and turned.

My heart skipped.

She was smiling. Soft, unguarded—almost as if she wasn’t aware of it herself. When she felt my eyes on her, her gaze shifted from Eva to me, and the smile faded as she began to study my face instead.

I recognised that look. I’d seen it at work—colleagues, patients, admiring the outcome of something difficult done well.

But in Anne’s eyes there was more.

Not adoration.

Respect.

No one will ever—

Fuck off and rot in hell, mother.

Chapter 9

Anne

This felt like a dream—an out-of-body experience, floating somewhere above myself, watching a craftsman perfect his art. I recognised every step. Preparation to perfection.

Each neat stitch pulled the flesh back together.

Eva’s jaw hung open, blood and drool dangling from her chin. I wouldn’t need to endure her inane commentary anymore. She’d believed that attaching herself to Gareth offered some form of protection.

Silly rabbit.

Now she was strapped to a chair with her cheeks slit open and her jaw drooping, slanting to one side.

And the way it had popped—inspiring. I wasn’t certain I had the strength to achieve that with my bare hands alone. Perhaps with a speculum.

I refocused on Eva and realised he’d stopped stitching. He was staring at me.

A cold, unblinking glare that seemed to strip away the room and everyone in it, leaving only us—and whatever thrummed in the space between us. His face softened a fraction, but those dark eyes tugged at something in me, demanding recognition.

For the first time in my entire life, I saw something like myself reflected back.

Dead. Detached. Devastatingly attractive.

“Who are you?” I whispered.