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“You have twenty hours left to spend with me in this deserted shithole.”
He plucks the cigarette from his lips, crushes it into the ceramic soap dish beside the sink and reaches for his belt buckle.
“Twenty fucking hours?” he mutters. “Any reason you're being so specific?”
I keep the gun trained on his smooth chest, even though the sight of him loosening the leather sends a quiver to my belly.
After he kicks off his boots and snaps off his socks, he hooks his thumbs beneath his waistband and shoves the wet denim down without taking his eyes off me. His boxers follow and I swallow hard.
There’s nothing hesitant in the movement, and nothing remotely self-conscious about standing naked in front of the woman holding him prisoner.
If anything, the bastard looks pissed off that I’ve made him do something.
Fuckin’ hell, Rafey Cakes looks hot when he’s bloodied and naked.
His stare follows the barrel downward before returning to my face.
The muscle beside his mouth jumps.
“Aim up, Butcher. Shoot me in the dick and I’ll pull ya into that bath with me and drown ya in my fucking blood.”
I grunt out a laugh because that’s dark, even for me.
“Get in the bath.”
He swears under his breath and steps over the side, lowering himself into the empty tub.
I move closer, reach past him and twist the cold tap fully open.
Water blasts against enamel and Rafe hisses when the first icy stream strikes his feet. His hands clamp around the edges of the bath, forearms tightening until the veins stand out beneath his skin.
When he catches me watching, his jaw sets and his fingers loosen one by one.
“Jesus fuck,” he hisses.
I bend and put the little black stopper in the plughole.
“You’re a sick fucking bitch. Ya know that?”
My lips twitch beneath the balaclava. “And you’re a whiny little bitch.”
Water climbs around his hips while I stand there, gun aimed at his chest.
Rafe clenches his teeth and settles deeper instead of giving me the satisfaction of trying to get out.
“Tell me how long we’re gonna do this bullshit.”
“You stabbed me,” I begin.
His attention slides to the outside of my thigh when I tap two fingers against it.
“I remember,” he grits.
“The wound needed twelve stitches.”
“So?” One dark eyebrow lifts. “I had to get a bunch of stitches too.”
My gaze wanders over the healing scar on his shoulder. However, this isn’t an eye for an eye. He drew Crowe blood. My blood, to be precise. Which makes this very personal.
