Page 105 of The Dearly Departed

I snorted at that. She had no idea that the man her mother had married was my biological father. I wasn't sure I ever wanted her—or anyone, apart from Dean—to know.

"My father ditched us," I said. "He'd come back every now and then, when he needed to get laid and couldn't find anyone else. My mother died when I was four."

"I'm sorry,” she replied, and I knew from the sorrow in her tone that she meant it.

"Yeah, me too."

"Do you remember your mom?"

I pulled in a deep breath and tried to force the memory of my mom to mind, but it was a struggle. "Barely," I admitted, and a wave of melancholy washed over me. "I remember tiny bits and pieces of things, but it's … hazy. I have to try really hard to remember anything—her smile, her laugh, whatever—and then it's gone just as quickly."

"I remember nothing about my biological parents," she replied easily with little emotion.

"Have you ever tried to find them?"

"I did actually,” she said, her tone growing cold. “As it turns out, my father was a creepy old man who had raped my mother when she was fourteen. Daddy dearest died peacefully in his bed ten years later at the ripe old age of eighty-two, and my mother slit her wrists a couple of years after I was born."

"The world is a fucked-up place," I replied, watching the unreadable expression on her face.

"It certainly is," she agreed, holding the needle up and reaching for a pair of scissors in the bag. “My mother’s family couldn’t look at me without thinking about … everything she’d been through, I guess, so …”

The air left my lungs as I shook my head. “They blamed a baby for the sick actions of a disgusting man?”

“I don’t know if it was blame or if they just couldn’t look at me without thinking about it,” she muttered with a shrug. “But sometimes, I wonder how things would’ve been different if they’d just … let me stay.”

There was longing in the way she said that word—stay—and it was in that moment that I truly understood how unhappy Analise was in this life.

Is she a prisoner too?

She released her breath and schooled her features as she snipped the thread, and with finality, she announced, "Well, Doctor, you’re all done."

I tipped my chin. "Thank you, Nurse."

My gratitude seemed to shock her as she turned abruptly to look up toward my face. I wondered if anyone had ever taken the time to thank her before as she swallowed, bit at her bottom lip, then dropped her gaze to the first aid kit.

"You're very welcome,” she replied, soft and shy.

I watched as she pulled out a roll of gauze and surgical tape. She laid out enough to cover the length of the cut, and as she smoothed the material over my bare, injured calf, her touch ginger and soothing, she seemed to disappear to somewhere I couldn’t reach.

"I'm sorry you're going to have a scar through your tattoos," she said quietly.

"There are worse things."

Her fingertips grazed the imagery, her featherlight touch a jolt of electricity that traveled straight to my groin. This was not the time or place to get turned on. I needed to get changed and leave this place, but, God, I was lying there, and she was so close. Her hands were so soft, so gentle. I had never been touched like this, never wanted to be, and the last thing I wanted was to make her stop.

But she has to.

I closed my eyes, demanding my body to not respond, to not fantasize, to not want, but it had already started, and it wouldn't listen. I just hoped Analise wouldn't notice as she wrapped the surgical tape around my calf, securing the gauze in place.

"You're going to want to change this once a day. And make sure you clean …" Her words faded, and her hands slowly stilled.

I opened my eyes to look at her and became all too aware of what had stolen her ability to speak. Her gaze was fixed on the tented crotch of my pants, and those same delicate fingertips that had pieced my body together now moved with another intention, sliding ever so slowly up my calf, over my knee, and toward my thigh.

"Don’t," I warned softly, catching her attention.

She looked up at me, her eyes hooded with desire and her lips parted. She didn’t listen to me as her hand smoothed over my inner thigh, reaching my groin, and when her firm touch lay over my aching erection, she gasped, the sound breathless, like a lightning bolt straight to my loins.

You told her to stop.