27. Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Six

I've just stepped out of the shower when I hear a dull, rhythmic knocking. It sounds far away, but it's consistent enough that it has me wondering what it is. There aren't any other apartments touching mine, so unless Mrs. Burnett is hammering her wall…

I wrap the towel around my waist and head down the hall, which is when I realize the knocking is on my front door. I peek through the peephole and curse as I reach for the locks.

"What the fuck?" I whisper-shout.

Sev gives me a weak smile, his large hand covering a wound on his arm that is leaking blood. A lot of blood. His shirt is covered and it's all over my door frame. Smeared on his face. On the floor. Fuck.

I grab him by the other arm and yank him in. He stumbles toward my kitchen and drops into a chair that somehow holds his weight.

"Why didn't you go to a hospital?" I growl, reaching for the kitchen towel and replacing his hand with it. He hisses when I apply pressure.

"Ask too many questions."

I roll my eyes. "Have you ever heard of lying?"

"Don't lie."

I narrow my eyes, wanting to call him out on this shit with Reese, but I also don't want him dying on my kitchen floor. How will that look? How will I get rid of his body? He's too damn big for me to carry. I mean, maybe I could manage but it would be a struggle.

"Hold this here," I say, gesturing to the towel. His hand replaces mine, and he winces. I grab paper towels and go to my door to clean up the mess so Mrs. Burnett doesn't have a heart attack if she comes into the hall. Certain I've cleaned up every bit, I head back inside, locking both locks and check on Sev. He's still breathing, so I hurry to my bedroom and throw on a pair of joggers before returning to the kitchen. "What is this?" I gesture to his arm when he opens his eyes. "What the fuck happened?"

I'm so annoyed that he showed up here. He doesn't look good. Though it's only one slice, it's deep. And it looks like it's been bleeding for a while.

"Jim Bowie. Fifteen Incher. Surprised he didn't take my arm clean off."

"Jesus," I mutter. Leave it to him to know the exact type of knife that sliced his arm open. "How deep?"

"Definitely needs stitches." He smirks weakly and I want to punch him.

"You fucking owe me for this," I growl, heading into my bathroom to grab my suture kit, the saline, a basin, and hand towels.

When I place everything on the kitchen table, Sev laughs.

"What are you laughing at?" I snap.

"Who's the doctor now?" His eyes shine with humor and my gaze darts to his lips, the sudden urge to kiss him so strong I almost do it. Which is really fucking stupid.

So I bite my tongue, force my gaze away, and get to work.

"I'm going to enjoy stabbing you, I hope you know that," I tell him.

He gives one solid nod but says nothing.

I tear his shirt off so he doesn't have to pull it over his arm and toss it in the trash. Maneuvering his arm so his elbow is in the basin, I open the bottle of saline. But before I start to clean this monstrosity, I grab a bottle of whiskey from my cabinet and place it on the table. "You're going to need this."

He nods again, staring at the bottle. "Yep. You're probably right."

"Well, you're not completely infallible then?" I want to smile because it's funny, but I don't because I'm stubborn.

"Don't tell anyone." Sev winks at me, and I can't help but smile this time. But I look away, hoping he doesn't see it.

How is this so easy? It can't be like this.

I busy myself with setting up everything I'll need, like cutting the suture wire to length and wiping down the instruments. I haven't had to use this thing in a long time. When I'm done, I twist the cap off the whiskey, hold the bottle out to him while pressing my hand to the towel. He removes his, and I don't miss the way my fingers spark as they brush against his hand. He gulps the whiskey when he gets the bottle.

"This tastes like shit." He coughs, his eyes watering.

"You won't find any vodka in this house." I peek behind the towel, noting the wound is still bleeding, but isn't gushing like I thought it was. It is deep though, and it's going to need a decent number of stitches.

"You think just because I'm Russian all I drink is vodka?"

The way he says vodka though? Fuck, I feel it right to my toes.

I smirk at him. "Yes."

"So then why isn't this wine I have in my hand, Italian?"

I huff out a laugh. "Wine is for pussies."

"I happen to like wine." He takes another swig of the whiskey, not hiding his displeasure for it.

"Of course you do." I move more of the towel to get a better idea of how long the wound is. Maybe about five inches. "You ready?"

He shakes his head, then raises the bottle to his lips again, taking more gulps. He gags and puts the bottle down. Right. So he gags on bad alcohol but not dick. Good to know.

"Ready," he chokes out, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

I carefully remove the towel and clean his arm with the saline. It's gaping, bleeding, and absolutely disgusting. But at least it'll be clean. It'll leave a nasty scar, and it's ruined his tattoos that are over here, but something tells me he doesn't give a fuck about that.

"This is going to hurt," I warn as I reach for the needle.

"Tha—tvoyu mat!" he screams when I pinch the skin together. "You could have warned me."

"Where's the fun in that?"

He grits his teeth but looks away and grabs the bottle of whiskey again. I get to work. He winces, grunts, groans, and says shit in Russian I can only guess are insults aimed towards me. I ignore my interest in him speaking Russian, because the thought of him bossing me around in that tone and that language isn't something I should focus on. After I've got a few stitches in, he starts to shake, and I notice he's holding his breath.

"Hey, you need to breathe," I say softly, keeping my eyes on him.

"Easy for you to say," he growls through gritted teeth. But I notice the way he pulls in breaths through his nose and lets them out through his mouth. After a moment, I get back to it, making sure I can hear his breaths so he doesn't pass out on me.

"Would you be mad if I said I was enjoying this?" I try to lighten the mood.

"Would you care if I was?"

I huff out a laugh. "Not at all. I am enjoying this, by the way." I shift a little closer to him to get a better angle. It's bad enough I'm already hunched over. I should have had him sit on something higher so I'd be more comfortable.

He places his hand on my hip, his touch searing my bare skin. I pause, take a breath, then keep going. I should have put a fucking shirt on. His touch is distracting, but if he's willing to risk his life to put his hand on me, that's on him.

"After the other day, I thought you'd let me bleed out," he says softly.

"Not yet, psycho. I have something I need to talk to you about first."

He pulls his hand from my waist and shoves it near my face, wiggling his fingers. "Already told you, baby. I'm a size twelve."

I use my elbow to shove his hand away and keep working. The alcohol must be setting in because he's hardly flinching anymore. His hand goes right back to my side, and this time I don't find it distracting. It's comforting. I hadn't realized how nervous I was doing this, but with his hand on me, I feel notably calmer. When I'm around him in general I feel more calm. It's weird.

"How many?" he asks when I snip the thread.

"Twenty-two."

"Not bad. Not my record though."

"You would think this was a game."

I step away to toss the soiled towels in my trash, but he wraps his arm around my waist and tugs me to him. His large thigh rests between mine, his hand on my lower back just above my ass. He looks up at me, an expression on his face I don't recognize. Certainly one I've never seen before. His hand is large, warm, and burning my skin. I should run away, kick him out, stab him in the throat, but I just stand here. Staring at him. Wondering why the hell I don't hate any part of this.

"Thank you." The words are soft, quiet. I know he means them.

"You're welcome." My voice is husky, totally giving away how I'm feeling.

His thumb brushes along my side, causing goosebumps, before he pulls his hand away. I finish cleaning up and put everything away, then grab a shirt from my room to bring him. "Probably too small, but better than nothing I guess."

He takes the shirt from me, stands, and drops it to the table. My lips part as I stare at him. Dried blood covers his chest, neck, his abs. It's soaked into his jeans and still smeared on his face. He looks like a warrior. It's hot as sin.

I grab the bottle of whiskey and take a mouthful. This man is going to be the death of me. And I have a feeling I'm going to enjoy it way too much.

"What did you need to talk to me about?" he asks.

"Don't you want to shower first?" I ask, gesturing to all the blood.

He shakes his head. "Talk to me."

I pull another chair out from the table and sit. He does the same.

"You put a hit on the boards out in California for a defense attorney some time ago. I don't know, maybe a year? Ten months?"

"And?"

"My cousin picked up the job, but when he got there, it was wrong so he didn't do it." Sev's brow furrows. "The guy wasn't a woman-beater as the job said. Why did you lie?"

He shakes his head. "I didn't."

"You did. We have a very skilled tech guy who confirmed it was you who posted it. You as in the Piano Man, not that they actually know who you are."

"I don't lie on those boards," he says adamantly.

I narrow my eyes, wanting to believe him. Feeling like I should. He doesn't seem like the lying type.

"Why are you on those boards anyway?"

"Bitch work. People I want gone but don't want to waste my time doing." He says it simply enough that I believe him. But I always believe him.

"The guy was recently killed," I add.

Realization flashes in his eyes. "The defense attorney… Yeah." He nods, then huffs out a laugh. "That was a mistake."

I raise a brow. "A mistake?"

"Too much alcohol. Too little sleep. Too many jobs on the boards. Mixed a few up." He shrugs, giving me an oops look.

"You mixed a few up?" I ask slowly. He nods sheepishly. "My cousin is freaking out that you're going to kill him for taking half the payment for the job and not finishing the hit."

He waves me off with his good arm. "I don't give a fuck about that. Want me to call him and tell him?"

"No," I bark.

"Don't want your family to know you're close with the Piano Man."

I roll my eyes. "We're not close."

He scoots his chair so close our knees brush. "I'd say touching each other's dicks makes us pretty close."

Not sure what I'm supposed to say to that. I mean, what can I say? He isn't wrong. But I make up some bullshit thing to say anyway.

"In my book, it's the third time that would make us close, and that's not going to happen. You're maxed out at two."

He shakes his head, his smile falling. "I can't figure you out."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means you're responsive to me. I see the way your pupils dilate when I get this close to you, feel how hard your dick gets when I touch it. You come like a fucking fountain when I get you off. There's no doubt you want me just as badly as I want you. Yet…" He shakes his head, leaning back against his chair. "You deny yourself. Why?" When I don't speak, he continues. "It isn't the money. I offered you more, so don't act like this is still about killing me, about needing money. What is it about, Justin?"

His tone is gentle. Too gentle to come from him, but it is. I saw his lips move when he spoke the words. How can a man like him be so fucking ruthless yet so gentle and caring?

"Why do you do it?" I finally ask the question I've wanted to know.

His eyes flicker with excitement. "Because I can."

"That doesn't make sense."

"Maybe not to you. But to me it does."

His gaze dips from my face to where his name is carved into my skin. He reaches out, skating his fingers along the letters. My eyes fall closed, a shiver running up my spine. He uses one finger to trace back over each letter, and he hums a sound of approval.

This man makes me feel… something strange.

I can't quite explain why I keep fighting him. Because he's completely unhinged? Psychotic. Because how can I trust someone like him? Even if it's just with sex? None of those reasons feel right. It's something else entirely.

Even with the reservations in my head, I don't stop him when his hand slides around to my back. Don't stop when he leans over me and buries his face in my neck. My neck that still has shadows of bruises he left from the last time in his cabin. And when he makes a low growling sound in his throat, I dig my fingers into his skin and let out a sigh. It's getting harder and harder to pull away from him.

Honestly, I don't think I want to anymore. And it really sucks that I have to.