Another image of mathematical equations hung from the crisp walls.
The computers and frames—was he a genius? An evil mastermind who pulled the strings of the world through the use of code?
Opening the under sink cupboard, I found what I was looking for. Grabbing the bright red plastic box with the white cross, I made my way back into the office.
Kill lay on his back, an arm thrown over his eyes, his lips parted.
He didn’t move as I fell to my knees beside him and unlatched the case. He didn’t twitch as I grabbed the sterile scissors and cut his ruined T-shirt away.
I pushed the bloody garment off his shoulders and his arm fell away from his eyes. He was unconscious again.
I hope you stay that way for the next part.
Staring at the medical kit, I selected some antiseptic wipes, ripped open a needle, and threaded medical-grade twine. The kit was well equipped, more so than a normal, everyday one. Why did he have the need for something with its own battery pack and defibrillators?
Do you really need an answer to that?
His lifestyle was obviously dangerous. He held the respect of most of the men back at the compound, but not all. He’d been challenged and hurt. To live in a world where life was an uncertainty would require the use of a medical kit such as this once in a while.
Cleaning his chest of blood, I poured a decent amount of Betadine in his wound to disinfect, then tried to stem the bleeding as best I could with the use of gauze. Holding it down with pressure, I quickly swiped his chest with an alcohol wipe, watching his features carefully to see if he’d wake.
Nothing.
My heart thundered in my ears but my hand was steady. Muscle memory took over mind memory as I rested on my knees beside the naked chest of Arthur Killian and pinched the puckered ends of his wound.
I guessed it was two to three inches. Fairly deep, made by something sharp, like a switchblade or jagged point. I hoped the muscle wasn’t ruptured or needed internal stitching because all I could do with the items I had was sew the outer layer.
He’s lucky it wasn’t over his heart. The wound was on the right side of his chest, about a hand’s width from his nipple. My eyes skated over his body, taking in the firm muscles, the deep shadows that formed a six-pack, the hairless chest, and the dark happy trail disappearing into his jeans. He had the most perfectly formed V muscles, taunting me with everything that was male.
The belt buckle that’d jammed into me was the same emblem as the one on his jacket—an abacus and skull with a waterfall of coins from its mouth.
He needed a thorough cleaning. There was mud and dirt all over him, not to mention the dried blood.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed the needle through his flesh, sewing the two sides together.
He didn’t flinch. His breathing stayed shallow but regular.
One blessing, I supposed.
I lost track of time as I sewed and tended to the man I should’ve let bleed out and run far away from. I saved his life, all while mine hung in the balance.
But I was rewarded with some resemblance of peace. Serenity. Partly because in doing something I obviously had talent for, I was also saving someone who could save me in return.
I knew that. Completely. He had the answers—I just didn’t know if he’d share them with me.
The last few stitches, Kill sucked in a harsh breath, his eyes flaring wide.
“Ah, fuck me, that hurts.” He coughed, trying to move away from the inserted needle in his muscle.
I gritted my teeth, keeping a firm pressure on his shoulder. “I’m not done. I have a few more to do. Stay still.”
He glowered. “It feels like you’re butchering me.”
I tugged on the needle, threading it through the second part of his wound. “I’m fixing you. Don’t moan.”
He chuckled darkly. “Moan? Lady, you’re lucky I’m not howling.”
I kept sewing as he chewed the inside of his cheek and permitted me to finish. With each puncture he twitched, his muscles tightening and breath catching.
“Do you hurt anywhere else?”
He laughed, then coughed again. “You’re joking, right?”
We made eye contact. A small smile graced my lips. “I meant—is there anything broken or other serious cuts that I should know about?”
He paused, staring silently as if he couldn’t understand me at all. The softness in his gaze sent a fluttering of butterflies through my belly. “No,” he murmured. “Nothing that you can fix.”
I sucked in a breath, dying to ask what troubled him. He carried something deep—something that tarnished him, hanging over his head like a thunder cloud.
Dropping my gaze, I tied off the final stitch and sat back on my heels.
His brow dotted with sweat even though his body was ice-cold and too white. He shouldn’t be on the cool tile, but I wouldn’t be capable of moving him. He would have to stay there until he could move himself.
“Stay here,” I ordered, climbing stiffly to my feet.
He closed his eyes, a smile tugging his mouth. “Where the fuck am I gonna go? I can barely see straight.”
“I just came to the same conclusion.” I dashed from the room and back to the bathroom. Grabbing the face towels from a shell-shaped bowl on the vanity, I filled the bowl with warm water, grabbed all the bath towels from the heated towel rack, and made my way back to the office.
At the last second, I dumped the towels and placed the warm water at the entrance of the room, and tore upstairs.
Was I prying by jogging down the corridor and peering into the multiple bedrooms? Perhaps, but I had one goal, and no ulterior motives.
Coming to the room at the end of the corridor, I paused and entered. It was the only one that looked lived-in. The king-size bed wasn’t made, the black-and-white abstract covers bunched to one side. The scent of masculine soap and aftershave mixed with more leather and the salt spray of ocean.
Tiptoeing into Kill’s bedroom, I glanced to see if there were photos or personal items. The house was too stark—missing a soul. Grabbing the thick black blanket from the end of the bed, I made my way to leave but something caught my eye on a table where coins and a lighter rested. Tucked against the wall, looking as if it’d been handled many, many times, sat an eraser.
My heart clenched as pain leeched through my blood.
“I don’t care what the traits are. You could be any star sign and I’d love you.”
He sighed deeply, nuzzling into my neck. “I’ll be anyone you want me to be as long as you continue to give me your heart.”
I pulled back, drowning in the adoration in his gaze. “Forever.”
“For always.”
The eraser.
It… hurt.
It drove a spike deep into my heart, making me cry in impatience. Unsolved mysteries—I wanted with my every breath to know now. That very instant.
With shaking fingers, I picked up the eraser, smoothing the faded shape of the scales of a Libra star sign.
Chapter Five
I drifted in agony, my mind touching memories too swollen with hate and disgust to linger long.
Everything inside me reeked with the need to reap vengeance. It was all I lived, all I ate, all I breathed.
Until her.
Until the imposter with green eyes.
—Kill
Kill’s gaze opened at the sound of the large bowl clinking onto the tile. A small wave of warm water splashed onto the floor. Placing the towels beside his head, I kept the blanket away for now so it didn’t get wet.
He raised an eyebrow. “What exactly are you doing?”
My heart still hurt, my mind desperately trying to unlock the meaning of the eraser. It meant something. The connection—the flashback.
I refused to meet his eyes. “Cleaning you. You’re covered in blood. It’s unhygienic. Then, if you can move, you need to get into bed to rest; if not, I’ll make you a bed here and I’ll get you something to eat.”
He stared for a long moment, his eyes warring with astonishment and disbelief. “You’re going to clean me?” He swallowed. “You’re going to bathe me, feed me, and stay… even though only hours ago my brothers kidnapped you and you woke in the compound of the Pures?”
Ignoring most of that, I asked, “The Pures?”
He frowned, still unable to figure out if I was insane or just incredibly stupid. “Pure Corruption. My MC. You do understand I’m the president?” His hand swept up, heavy and slightly shaky to press against my temple. “I’m seriously fearing for your mental capacity.”
Ignoring that, too, I asked, “How did you become president?”
Keep him talking. Every word from his lips was like a bread crumb leading to a meal I desperately wanted to devour.
He breathed out hard. “None of your damn business.”
“Why do you live alone and not with your brothers? Isn’t it a requirement to live as one happy family?”
He growled, “Again, none of your damn business. And I’m the fucking president. I can do what I want, so stop asking questions.”
I nodded, eyeing his belt buckle. “Okay. Take your trousers off if you don’t want to talk.”
He half laughed, half groaned. “You are the strangest woman I’ve ever met.” He looked down his shirtless front. Instead of the wry smiles he’d been giving, seriousness glowed in his eyes. He looked younger and older all at the same time—giving me a glimpse of genuineness below the rough exterior. “You want to get me into bed and out of my pants?” The words pretended to be jovial, but the tone… It wasn’t.