I placed my hands over his, still cupping my cheeks. “I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me.”
His mouth remained parted, fear and shock blanching his skin. “I—the most—” He sighed and tried again. “I was told you were dead. I stood on your grave. I read your death certificate. I went to—”
Grasshopper’s voice popped into my head. I murmured, “You served time… for what happened to me?” My heart fisted not wanting to know. “Why? What… what happened? Why were you sentenced? Who—”
He moved his hand to press against my lips. His eyes were heavy and dark with sadness. “Don’t. Just—please, let me enjoy having you here. You’re reincarnated. Let me adjust to that… before we drag up the past.” His face implored. “Please… I can’t talk about it. Not yet.”
Impatience filled me like sticky syrup, but I nodded. “Okay.”
Dropping his hands, Kill said, “Come. Let’s go upstairs. Let’s talk.” Taking my fingers in his, he tugged me toward the exit and grabbed a neatly folded towel from a basket. Letting me go, he quickly wrapped it around his hips, hiding what I most wanted, and took my hand again.
We moved quickly but not too quickly. We stole glances but didn’t speak. We climbed the stairs together, never looking away.
Nervousness was thick and rampant; I worried my heart would never find a normal rhythm again.
The minute we entered his bedroom, he released my hand. Without a word, he disappeared into the bathroom.
I stood for a moment in rejection. Did he need more time? Space?
No. I wouldn’t let him run. Not this time.
Chasing him, I followed the trail of droplets on the carpet. The moment I entered the bathroom, the air instantly thickened with tension.
Kill’s tattooed back remained unyielding and knotted. He didn’t turn to face me. Instead, he kept his attention averted—deliberately cutting me off while he fumbled with whatever he dealt with.
Tearing the towel from his waist, he jumped into the shower and wrenched on the water. Forcing his head under the heavy stream, he sighed heavily. No sound escaped but I felt his confusion and anxiety right in my soul.
I stood there—a voyeur with no place. I couldn’t take my eyes from his naked form. All I wanted to do was hug him, to tell him it was okay to be overwhelmed—I was, too.
Join him.
I couldn’t deny I wanted to jump into the shower. I wanted to feel him close. I wanted to touch him, and find out once and for all why he lost it today.
But I couldn’t.
Something held me back.
Pumping spicy body wash into his hands from a bottle, he lathered his body with clinical cleanliness before rinsing completely and stalking from the shower.
His green eyes met mine briefly as he reached for a fresh towel, rubbing his hair until it stuck out in sexy strands, then wrapped a new towel around his perfectly cut and defined body.
Without a word, he stormed to the vanity, grabbed a pair of tiny silver scissors, and disappeared into the bedroom.
At a loss of what to do, I followed him only to find him laid on the bed with his damp hair on the pillow, eyes locked on the ceiling, and the silver scissors in his open palm.
“Do it. Don’t want these things in me anymore.” Raising his head, he added, “Once they’re out… we’ll talk.”
He’s stalling for time.
I didn’t know if I should be pleased I affected him so badly or worried.
Moving toward the bed, I climbed hesitatingly onto the mattress and shuffled closer. Kill didn’t look at me; his free hand fisted by his thigh.
Taking the offered scissors, I leaned over his wound. The skin had healed enough to stay knitted together. Touching his flesh, I checked there was no infection or temperature. Satisfied it wouldn’t be detrimental, I sat straight. “I need tweezers.”
“Top drawer in the bathroom.”
I scooted off the bed, retrieved the tweezers, and climbed back by his side. His skin was cool on the surface from his cold shower but beneath it raged a fire that burned all my thoughts to ash.
Being this close. Both of us mostly naked. In bed.
It was a dream. A nightmare. A fantasy all come true.
The jacket was cumbersome on my frame. The cuffs hanging over my hands. I wouldn’t be able to do something as delicate as remove stitches while fighting the dense material. It had to come off… only, I had nothing on underneath.
It doesn’t matter.
He’d seen me naked. He’d been inside me.
So why do I feel so shy and vulnerable?
Forcing myself to be brave, I shrugged out of his jacket, and placed it gently at the foot of the bed. “Thank you for letting me wear it.”
Kill’s nostrils flared as he forced himself to continue staring at the ceiling. I knew he’d be able to see I was naked but he nodded curtly. “Only old ladies and members ever get the privilege.”
“Then why did you let me wear it?”
His head turned to face me; his eyes stayed locked above my collarbone. “Take my stitches out.”
Pain lashed through my heart. The rage he constantly carried glittered in his eyes, dampening the small amount of trust we’d formed. The tiny edge of vulnerability was gone. Disappeared, or hidden.
“Kill… don’t. Please don’t shut me out.”
He clenched his jaw. “I’m—I’m not doing it intentionally. It’s just…” His gaze softened and he reached for me before dropping his hand deliberately to the covers. “Give me more time. It’s not easy. I’m so used to blocking people. So used to being a bastard to protect myself.” His lips twitched into an apologetic smirk. “It’s not easy to break a habit.” His voice trailed to a whisper. “I still can’t believe this is happening. That you’re—you. And here. Alive.”