Page 101 of The Dearly Departed

Just the sight of the trocar made him gag.

But here I was, struggling to keep my vision from blackening at the edges as I climbed out of the car and limped toward the front door … all because of a little lost blood.

But, in my defense, I wasn't sure at this point how little it was.

After Dean had driven away with Cora and Lara in tow, I took a peek at the cut on my leg after applying a tourniquet, and it was at that time that Jesse had climbed out of his van and whistled at the sight of the blood coating my skin before saying, “Damn, bro. That’s gotta sting like a bitch.”

It did.

Sting like a bitch, I mean.

Now, two hours later, I stumbled my way toward the mansion’s entrance, my leg pulsing with pain with every step. Funny how I hadn’t noticed before, when my focus was entirely on making sure those girls lived to see another day, but now, it was all I could think about.

I gritted my teeth and banged on the door, annoyed that nobody seemed capable of answering the damn thing if Dean wasn't around. I lifted my fist again, ready to pound again, harder this time—I’d break it down if I had to—when it flew open.

And there, standing on the other side, was Analise, dressed in her long black silk robe and a nightgown to match. Her hair was in a loose braid, slung over one shoulder and draped over the swell of her breast. Her face was barren of makeup, giving her natural beauty a moment to shine, but there was a sleepiness in her eyes, like she’d just rolled out of bed—and considering the time, that was entirely possible.

She gasped at the sight of me in all my masked glory, clutching her hand to her chest as her cheeks instantly flushed.

"Hi," she greeted, breathless as she uttered the first word spoken to me in what felt like months.

"Hey," I said as sweat started to bead across my forehead.

It would've been wise to remove the mask. I needed fresh air desperately, but my secured identity and the safety of my brothers and the funeral home were far more important than my need to breathe.

"I wasn’t expecting—"

"Analise, as much as I'd love to stand here and bullshit with you, I'm having a little problem."

Her demeanor shifted immediately, her face now blanketed with concern. "What's wrong?"

I nudged my chin downward. "I got a little scratch on my leg."

She dropped to her knees, and if I'd been in any other condition, the motion would’ve brought lewd thoughts to mind—of her undoing my belt in a moment of desperation to free my dick from its confines and pull me into her hot, wet mouth. And, God, I wished to be living in a time just like that. I wished to know exactly what it was like to hear her moan and feel the vibrations travel their way up my spine, to roll my eyes toward the back of my head as she brought me deeper and deeper into her throat.

But instead of living a fantasy, I leaned against the doorframe, my eyelids fluttering closed, and I focused on leveling out my shallow breaths as she ripped my pant leg open with startling strength to assess the damage.

"Oh my God," she uttered. “Can you walk?”

“I got over here, didn’t I?”

She sighed like she didn’t have the patience for me. “I know that, but I meant—"

"Yes, I can walk," I mumbled, my forehead pressed to my forearm. “But I’m fading fast here.”

“Okay,” she said as she stood and wrapped her arm around my waist. "Come on. You can lean on me."

The thought made me chuckle.

At six foot six, I dwarfed her, and I figured I had to be at least a hundred pounds heavier. But I feared I wouldn't be able to keep myself upright if I didn't at least try to do as she’d asked, so I let her sling my arm around her shoulders. She held on tight to my hand, keeping me secure, and with her arm around my middle, she brought me through the foyer and into that sitting room full of furniture and her paintings.

"Here, lie down."

I collapsed onto a velvet couch, stretching my injured leg out while the other remained on the floor. Analise put a pillow behind my head, instructed me to lie back, and then she hesitated for a moment, her gaze lingering over my face. Her dark eyes softened as her full lips parted, and I stared back, wondering how the hell she could look at me like that. Like, somehow, she had gotten confused along the way and was convinced that I was playing the role of the courageous hero and not the dastardly villain.

I wondered how long she’d have to stare at me just like that before I started to believe in the same fairy tales.

"You really should take this off," she whispered, her hands hovering over my mask. “You need fresh air.”