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Inching closer, I notice a bottle of scotch on the nightstand beside him. “It seems someone thinks you need to take the edge off.” I nod at the liquor and then open the kit to see what I’m dealing with. Gauzes, needles, thread, cleaning alcohol, and even a pair of forceps and a scalpel.
“I don’t need it,” he grunts in response as I roll my shoulders back and peel away the blood-stained t-shirt covering his wound. The gash is instantly recognizable as a knife wound. The jagged edges and the size make it clear there was no gun involved.
“You sure?”
He doesn’t respond, so when I glance up, he just quirks his brow and I don’t bother to ask again.
“Who pulled the knife out?” I ask, attempting to distract him with conversation as I check around the wound before sterilizing it. The hiss that comes from between his clenched teeth makes my nose wrinkle apologetically as I work as gently and efficiently as I can.
“Me, on the way here.”
It takes a moment for me to realize what he’s saying after the long pause from my question, leaving me to blink up at him in surprise.
“You’re crazy.”
“I know.”
Shaking my head at him, I try to calm the slight tremble in my hands as I rub my lips together nervously. “Do you have music on your cell? I need something to relax me.”
He nods, then pulls his cell phone from his cut pocket and unlocks it for me. A grin stretches my lips despite the current circumstances. “You’re a Swifty, huh? I never would have guessed it.”
I click shuffle on the playlist that is open, and Taylor Swift's voice meets my ears with her latest hit.
I expect him to get embarrassed or get upset, but he shrugs. “I only listen to it because Emily dragged me to one of her concerts. It’s a good memory, a core one, that I don’t ever want to forget.”
Well, that explains it.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” I mumble and focus back on the task at hand. I methodically clean the area, noting the lack of blood which means a major artery hasn't been cut, so I prepare the needle and thread.
“Hold this in place for me, please.” I hand him a few pieces of gauze to keep the wound clean as I steady the needle and thread the cotton through the small hole. For once in my life, it doesn’t take me an eternity to do it, the thread going through the needle on the first try.
Glancing up at Emmett, I seek for a reassuring nod before I start piercing his skin, but my eyes catch on his bare chest. Was I blind last night? Or too distracted with him fucking me into oblivion? I recall telling him to keep the cut on while he fucked me, but surely, I would have noticed the huge scar running down his chest. The puckered skin marking him in a way I've only seen once before.
I focus on the stitching as he moves his hand away from the area, but I still can’t stop myself from asking. “Your heart?”
After a few moments, he shifts and responds, “Yeah.”
Keeping my eyes downcast as I sew his wound shut, I push, eager for more. “How old were you?”
“Too young to really remember.” His words are short but not clipped, clearly not mad to be talking about it, but the fact that he has an everlasting scar and no memory of it must be crazy.
“I can’t even imagine.” My words are a feeble attempt at comfort? I don’t even know. As I finish off the last few stitches, I clear my throat. “Is everything okay with it now?”
“I assume so. I haven’t been to the hospital since I was fourteen.”
Fourteen? Isn’t this something they would continue to check forever? Tying off the end of the thread, I take the gauze from his hands and cover the wound before I finally meet his gaze.
“Are you willing to put your life at risk like that? For yourself? For your loved ones?” My words are surprisingly soft, attempting to be non-judgmental.
“I put my life at risk every time I put my cut on.”
I scoff this time, unable to hide the level of unimpressed that I am. It’s wrong to be coming at an injured man like this, but I’ve never been the best at social cues.
“Your cut is for honor, for blood, for heritage. Not taking care of your heart is irresponsible and selfish. You have a sister who believes you hung the fucking moon.”
I toss everything back into the first-aid box with more force than necessary, making myself even more annoyed at my own actions. Emmett grips my wrist, waiting for me to meet his gaze.
“Are you saying you care, Scarlett?”
