32. Max

A s he releases my chin, I hold out my hand. "Thank you." I don't know what he thought I was going to say or do, but he's slightly surprised by my reaction for sure. "Draven, I'm a med student. Having a severed tongue in my hand isn't the worst thing that's been there."

Dropping it gently into my grasp he leans in, kissing the top of my head. Such an endearing action from someone who murders people for me.

"I once had this guy's dick in my hand, from a motorbiking accident and we were trying to sew it back on and—"

"Enough, Petit Mouton ." He grimaces, shuffling beside me. "Let me change."

"Hold on," I stop him, turning to place the tongue on the counter. Keeping hold of his hand, I look down and examine his fingers. "What happened?" I briefly look up at him. "Did she fucking bite you?"

"It's nothing, but yes she did."

"It's not nothing Draven," cutting him off. "Do you have a first aid kit?" Raising my eyebrow, I look up at him. This is one thing I won't let go. He took care of me earlier and as much as I know he's quite capable of looking after himself, it's the only thing I know how to do. I guess, to show I... care?

Sighing, he points. "Under the sink."

"Ok, go sit." I point to the bed in the back, tipping his head a wry smile plays on his lips and weirdly enough, I already know what he's thinking.

"I know you're not a dog, but at least do as I ask... this one time. Then you can go clean up." Taking him by the wrist, I lead him round me, pressing my hands to his lower back, pushing him in the right direction. Crouching down, I open the cupboard under the sink and rummage around for this—small ass—first aid kit. This is ridiculous considering the size of him.

Kicking the small door closed with the back of my foot, I walk over to the back room, dropping down beside him and pulling his hand into my lap. Opening the kit, I pull out some antiseptic wipes, saline solution, and superglue. Not really the best for how deep the bite marks are, but it will have to do.

Lifting one of my legs up, I rest it on the bed, the other dangling over the side. "Did it hurt?"

"No, not at—"

Wiping the antiseptic wipe over the deep bite marks, I interrupt him. "I meant with her, Draven. Did she hurt?"

"Yes, I made sure of it, Petit Mouton ." The way he speaks, makes me believe it. I don't need to see the scene, I have the tongue with my name carved on it and Shade, the eyes she'll never use to look at Draven again.

"Was she scared?" I continue.

"Absolutely. "

"Thank you," I whisper, not really knowing what else to say, except knowing she suffered, knowing her last moments were spent in fear, makes me warm inside.

I nearly killed myself because of her, and I know I should be running a thousand miles away from this man after he killed two, maybe three people. But for the life of me, I just can't understand why I'm not.

"How are you feeling?" he asks me, and I know he's referring to the drugs in my system. I begged him to fuck me earlier, still buzzing off that awful fucking high I never wanted and I'm pretty sure he's worried I did it to please him.

"Much better," I smile. Squeezing the small tube of saline solution over the open wounds and cleaning them through with a gauze. "I uh…" Clearing my throat, I broach the conversation as best as I can. "About earlier," I look up at him then, "just know, it's what I wanted. Whether you care, or not," I release a brief laugh. "The sex was, good it—"

Rubbing circles on the knee hanging off the bed, I pause. "Just good?" he teases. Something a guy like him doesn't look like he's capable of.

Looking up at him again, I purse my lips. "Great," I shake my head at him. "But just know, I wanted that... okay?" I look back down, drying his fingers off. "I might have still been slightly buzzing off my ass Draven, but I knew what I was doing, what I wanted. Who," I pause briefly, clearing my throat, "I... wanted."

"Who is it that you wanted?"

I roll my lips together before responding, "You."

"Good girl."

I'm pretty sure my pussy winks. Focus, Max, fucking focus. Squeezing a tiny piece of superglue into the wound, I press my fingers against the skin, and hold it together. Gently blowing on the spot to harden it, making it stick quicker. He doesn't make a sound.

"Does this even hurt?" I tilt my head up at him. Already knowing the answer to my—yet again—stupid question.

"No more than any other mark on my body."

"Can you tell me how you really got the scar on your chest?" The need to fill any silence between us while I work is a must.

"Sure," he sighs. "Six years ago. I was riding my bike—motorcycle, Max—and let's just say my view on living was distorted. I became distracted, took a curve badly, slammed into a tree at almost eighty miles an hour."

The gasp I expel is involuntary. Holy fuck, how is he alive?!

"I had to have a thoracotomy due to the thoracic trauma." I start cleaning the rest of his fingers of her blood when I feel his hand brush a strand of my hair behind my ear. "It isn't too interesting of a story, unfortunately."

I lift my gaze through my lashes and release a breath, I look back down at his finger to confirm the glue is dried. It's as good as it will get. Closing the box up, I tap his thigh.

"Good as new." Meeting his gaze, the butterflies in my stomach emerge again. "Thanks for telling me…"

Max, you really need to get a grip on yourself.

I've never really had feelings for anyone in my life. I never say the word love, because it's thrown around far too easily for my liking. The way I've felt the past few hours, in his space, I can't even explain what that is.

He's the biggest walking red flag I may ever come across, one that isn't in the books I read at home. He's everything I know I should stay away from but when he looks at me like he does, touches me and makes me actually feel something. I find myself fighting to stay put.

Picking up the medical box, I stand. I don't even make it a single step before he's tugging me back to face him.

"What?" Looking down on him, the look on his face changes to something I haven't seen before. "I'm fine, I promise." Maybe it's that, maybe he's worried about me.

"Let me tell you something, Petit Mouton ."

"Okay." I allow him to pull me back to a seated position. Rubbing his hand over his face he clears his throat. "What's wrong?" Pressing the palm of my hand to his cheek, I wait patiently for his words to break the silence. More than likely this is where I'll hear this is done before it even started.