AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“It’s just a scratch.” He plays it off, but the hiss that escapes him when I gently prod around the gash reveals he’s in pain.
“Let me see what’s in the first-aid kit.” Even though I was out cold, I’m glad I had the good sense to clutch onto the kit because it’ll come in handy as god knows what lurks in the thick jungle.
My legs are shaky, but I come to a slow stand and hobble to the kit. I should be thankful I’m walking at all, seeing as I would be dead if it wasn’t for Saint. The fact I was out cold means he swam me to safety even though he was injured. It would have been easier for him to let me drown as I can imagine he could barely swim for one person, let alone two.
So helping him is the least I can do.
“Take off your shirt,” I instruct, walking back over to where he sits. He doesn’t argue and slips it over his head.
Even under the veil of darkness, his ripped body comes to life. But I focus on what’s inside the kit as I open it up. Tylenol, alcohol wipes, bandages, gauze, and some sort of ointment. When I see a sewing kit, a knife, and a gun, my stomach drops.
This isn’t your standard first-aid kit. It’s the essential go-to for every hitman.
Dropping to my knees, I place the kit on the sand beside me and tear open the packet of wipes. I don’t bother with a countdown and begin to clean the area gently. The jagged flesh will no doubt leave a scar, but what’s one more as his body is covered in them.
I silently wipe the wound, using a new wipe to disinfect the area as best I can. His eyes watch my every move; I can feel them. The scrutiny has my fingers shaking, but I pull it together because for what I propose next, I will need a steady hand.
“I need to close it up. A simple Band-Aid won’t fix this.”
Gazing up at him from under my lashes, I wait for him to reply. The air is charged as I’m asking him to trust me to sew him back up. Beads of water coat his golden skin, collecting in the dark hair on his chest. My eyes leisurely drift to the barbell in his nipple. I’ve never really been a fan of ink or piercings, but having both within inches of me, I am suddenly a convert.
“Okay,” he finally says, his low voice adding to my nerves.
“Can you lean back a little? I need to get the skin as tight as possible.” He does as I ask, leaning back on his arms. The expanse of his torso has me wetting my lips because everything undulates as he shifts to get comfortable.
“I’ve never done this before,” I confess, unwrapping the sewing kit. When I see the needle and thread, my hands begin to sweat. “I don’t want to make a mess.”
“I’m already ruined, so what’s one more scar?” he confesses, surprising me. I wouldn’t refer to the sight before me as ruined. Each scar tells a story, showing the world you were stronger than whatever tried to beat you.
I don’t voice that aloud, though, as I attempt to thread the black yarn through the eye of the needle. My trembling fingers display my nerves, but Saint doesn’t move. He simply sits back and waits. After countless attempts, I finally get it through.
Now the hard part. I can’t imagine this will feel good. No matter how I go about it, it’s going to hurt like a bitch. Swallowing down my fear, I wipe down the needle with the disinfectant and exhale loudly.
“If you need me to stop, just tell me.” I meet his eyes, unable to read what flickers behind his.
“I won’t,” he replies firmly. He isn’t trying to be tough. It’s clear he’s done this before so a breather won’t be necessary.
With that as my green light, I position myself as best I can, count to three in my head, then pierce his skin with the needle and thread. I cringe at the absolutely disgusting sight, but I continue threading the thread through.
When I come back down and pierce his skin again, my stomach begins to turn. He flinches as my hand is unsteady, and I accidentally tug hard. “Sorry,” I say, easing the pressure. “I haven’t done this before. Am I doing it right?”
“You’re doing fine,” Saint replies coolly. I’m in awe of his composure.
With his assurance, I continue sewing him up, ensuring each stitch is close together. The gash is a decent size, so I want to close it up properly. His breathing is heavy, his chest rising and falling irregularly. He’s in pain, but he stays true to his word and doesn’t ask me to stop.
When I’m halfway done, my nerves begin to settle as the wound has stopped bleeding. “Who did this to you?”
I need to fill the silence because the sound of sewing Saint’s flesh together has my stomach turning once again.
“Kazimir,” he replies, a hitch to his breath as I jerk when I hear his name.
“How do, did”—I correct—“you know him?”
I don’t expect him to answer, but maybe talking takes his mind off what I’m doing as well. “He has worked for Popov for years.”
“And you haven’t?” I risk asking, unsure how or if he’ll reply.
But he surprises me. “No.”
