After the shower, I pour Kage a whiskey and make him sit at the kitchen table, where the light is good. Then I get a needle and thread from my sewing kit, hydrogen peroxide from the bathroom cabinet, a small cotton towel, and gauze pads.
Standing in front of him, looking at this huge, tattooed man sitting in my kitchen chair wearing only the pair of gray sweats I bought for him as a gift, I’m filled with a sudden burning bright happiness. It’s blinding, like I’m staring into the sun.
To manage it without blurting something foolish, I say, “I don’t have any tape.”
Lounging in the chair like the king of libertines, he takes a swig of the whiskey, licks his lips, and smiles at me. “For what?”
“The bandages. I can’t glue them on, I need medical tape.”
“Do you have any duct tape?”
“I’m not putting duct tape on you! That stuff’s industrial strength! It’ll rip your skin off when you remove it!”
He looks at the sewing kit in my hand. “You’ll stitch me up with cotton thread that’s going to degrade and give me an infection so I’ll die from sepsis, but you draw the line at duct tape?”
I stare at the thread in dismay. “Oh crap. What should I use, then?”
“Fishing line’s good. If you don’t have that, unflavored dental floss.”
I don’t ask how he knows that. I just go back into the bathroom and get my dental floss, then return to the kitchen. He’s pouring another glass of whiskey.
“Good idea. That’ll help to numb the pain.”
“This isn’t for me. It’s for you.”
“I don’t think it’s smart for me to drink alcohol before attempting surgery.”
“And I don’t think it’s smart for my doctor to attempt surgery on me with such shaky hands.”
We both look at my hands. They’re definitely shaking.
“Fine. Give it to me.”
I set all my supplies on the table. He hands me the glass of whiskey. I down most of it and give him back the glass. “Okay, I’ll sit over here. You should turn—”
“You’ll sit here.”
He pulls me down onto his lap, facing him, my thighs open around his hips.
“This doesn’t seem like the best position.”
Sinking his fingers into my ass, he leans in and nuzzles my neck. “It does to me.”
“I appreciate the attention, but if you keep distracting me like that, you’re liable to wind up with stitches that look like something Frankenstein’s monster would be proud of.”
“I’m not entering any beauty contests soon, baby. Just clean it off and sew it up.”
“You say that like it’s easy.”
“Because it is. I’ll walk you through it. Pour the peroxide over the wound first.”
I lean closer to inspect it, biting my lip when I see the gash up close.
It’s not gruesome. It’s not even particularly long or large. It is, however, seeping blood, which he doesn’t even seem to be aware of.
He says, “See? I told you. It’s hardly a scratch.”
“How many times have you been shot?”
He thinks for a moment. “Six? Ten? I don’t remember. I always get a tattoo to cover the scar.”
I examine his chest, a glorious canvas of ink overlying an even more glorious network of muscle. The man is walking art.
“Like this one.”
I touch a grinning skull on his left pec, above his heart. There’s a small knot of white scar tissue in the middle of one of the skull’s black eyes. It gives the appearance of a beady little eyeball, peering out with evil intent.
Glancing down at it, Kage says, “It’s a good thing you weren’t around for that. You definitely would’ve passed out.”
“But the scar is so small. Not even the size of a dime.”
“That’s the entry wound. The exit wound in my back was the size of this.”
He looks up and holds up his fist. It’s as big as a grapefruit. I swallow, feeling my stomach turn.
“How did you survive?”
“I almost didn’t.” He shrugs. “But I did.”
He’s so nonchalant about it, like dying is no big deal. Or maybe it’s his own life he thinks is no big deal.
Maybe he doesn’t think it’s worth much.
I flatten my palms over his broad chest and look into his eyes. “I’m glad you did,” I say softly. “I don’t think I’d have ever been happy again if I hadn’t met you.”
Though he tries not to show it, I see how much my words affect him. His eyes flash. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
In a rough voice, he says, “You would’ve met someone.”
“I met a lot of men after David. I even dated a few of them. Nobody ever made me feel like you do. No one made me feel alive.”
Some unidentifiable emotion wells up in his eyes, but he looks away so I can’t tell what it is. I want to ask him what’s wrong, but he abruptly changes the subject.
“I’ll thread the needle for you. Pull the edges of the wound together and start at one end. Don’t pull the stitches too tight, or the flesh will die. Don’t go too shallow, or too deep, either. Just make small, evenly spaced stitches. Pretend you’re hemming a dress.”
“A skin dress. How Hannibal Lecter.”
“The skin-dress guy was Buffalo Bill. Lecter was the one who helped Starling catch him.”
“That’s right, I remember now. Are you a movie fan?”
His brows draw together. He seems lost in some bad memory, one I know he won’t divulge.
His voice low, he says, “I don’t sleep much. There’s always a movie on TV late at night.”
I get a glimpse of what his day-to-day life must be like. It isn’t pretty.
When I touch his cheek, he glances back at me, startled, pulled back from wherever he went.
“The next time you can’t sleep, call me, okay? We can watch a movie together.”
He searches my face with a look of longing in his eyes, like there’s nothing on earth that would make him happier than to watch the same film over the phone together when he’s away.
But again, he changes the subject, reaching over to pick up the bottle of peroxide.
“Cleaning first. Then stitching. Let’s get this over with so we can get back to the important stuff.”
He squeezes my butt when he says, “important stuff,” so there’s no misinterpreting his meaning. The man is the Energizer Bunny.
We’re both quiet as I gently clean the wound with a peroxide-soaked corner of the towel. There’s a small scrap of material from his shirt caught in the wound, crusted with blood. When I pull it free, he starts to bleed again, so I press down on the gash until the bleeding stops, then keep cleaning.
When I’m done with that, he hands me the needle.
Very seriously, he says, “Don’t be scared if I pass out when you first stick me.”
I’m horrified for a second, until I realize he’s joking.
Muttering under my breath, I get to work.
It’s not as gross as I anticipated. After the first few stitches, I’ve got the swing of it. I don’t take long to finish, and I’m pretty pleased with myself at the results.
“Do I just cut the end of the floss or what?”
“Tie a knot, then cut it.”
I follow his instructions with the knot, but have to get off his lap to go get the scissors in the junk drawer. Then I snip the end and stand back to admire my work.
Apparently, he doesn’t like me standing so far away. He pulls me back onto his lap, this time with both my legs hanging over one side so I’m curled against him, safe in the circle of his strong arms.
He kisses the top of my head. I sigh in contentment. Then I yawn.
His chuckle is a low rumble under my ear. “Am I boring you?”
I smile against his neck and tell him an outrageous lie. “So much. You’re the most boring man on earth. It’s as dull as watching paint dry when you’re around. Speaking of which, how long will you be around this time?”
Stroking a hand over my hair, he says, “At least through the new year.”
Excited, I sit up and look at him. “Really? That long?”
Smoothing my hair away from my face with his hands, he smiles. “You’ll get sick of seeing me.”
I nod, as if this is a real concern. “Probably. A whole week with you…” I shudder. “Ugh.”
“I guess I’ll have to try to be more interesting.”
His eyes smoldering, he picks me up and carries me back to bed.
On the way there, I tell him about my visit from Chris. And even though I don’t want to because I’m afraid of what his reaction might be, I admit that Chris said he showed the sketch of his face to the FBI.
“Don’t worry about that.”
He lays me on the bed and settles the covers over me, then gets into bed on the other side and pulls me against him so we’re spooning. Drawing his legs up behind mine, he inhales deeply against my hair, then wraps an arm around me and kisses the nape of my neck.
“But they’ll be looking for you now. Here.”
“That sketch has already gone missing.”
He rolls over and turns off the light on the nightstand. Confused, I blink into the darkness.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean Deputy Dipshit isn’t the only one with contacts inside the bureau.”
I blink so much, I might as well be signaling in Morse Code. “But…you said if they found out about me—”
“They don’t know anything about you. And we’re going to keep it that way.”
“Chris might tell them, though.”
“Doubtful. He’s in love with you.”
That makes me snort. “Not even close. His ego’s just bruised.”
Kage sighs, stirring the hair on my neck. Clearly, he doesn’t believe me.
“Also…” I cringe. “I might have…sort of…threatened to shoot him.”
After a beat, Kage rears up to an elbow and says loudly, “What the hell did he do? Did that fucker touch you? I’ll kill him!”
His tone is murderous. I can’t help but find that romantic in a twisted sort of way. “No, honey. He didn’t touch me.”
“What did he do, then?”
I think about it for a moment, then tell him the truth. “Basically, he annoyed me.”
I can’t see his face, but I feel Kage frowning at me in the dark. “You threatened to shoot a sheriff because he annoyed you.”
It sounds bad when he says it. I get a little defensive. “He’s been driving by my house at all hours of the day and night for weeks—”
He growls, “Hold on. What?”
“See? Annoying. And he said some insulting things about you, and about me, and wouldn’t leave when I asked him to, and just overall acted like a prize-winning dick.”
Kage is silent for a while, simmering. “Thank you for telling me. I’ll handle him.”
My eyes widen. “By ‘handle him,’ do you mean…”
“I mean your man will handle it. You don’t need to worry about him bothering you anymore.”
With a grumble, he lays his head back on the pillow and slides his arm underneath my neck. We lie in silence for a while, until Kage’s breathing returns to normal.
Then I whisper, “Don’t hurt him, though. Okay?”
He exhales in a heavy rush.
“I don’t want that on my conscience. Promise?”
“You pointed a gun at him, but I can’t?”
“Mine wasn’t loaded. Yours would be.”
I can feel his outrage. “Your gun isn’t loaded? Why the hell not?”
“I only have it because my dad left it here. And this is a town of only about four thousand people, with very low crime. And I have a big dog.”
Kage’s laugh is sour. “The dog who greeted me with a wagging tail when I picked your back-door lock, then promptly went to sleep on the sofa?”
“Yeah. That’s Mojo. I know he’s not exactly on high alert.”
“No, he’s on Prozac.”
“He’s a happy dog!”
“Happy dogs don’t make good guard dogs. We should get you a Rottweiler.”
I picture a two-hundred-pound furry monster baring sharp, saliva-dripping fangs at me while I’m sleeping. “Hard pass.”
“Then at least load your gun.”
“I don’t have any ammunition.”
Kage’s sigh conveys his extreme disappointment in my lack of preparation for a home invasion.
I keep my tone light when I say, “I’ll be safe for at least the next week, anyway. So there’s that.”
Another dissatisfied grumble. The arm around my body squeezes me tight.
I know his mind is working, running over what I said. I didn’t mean it as a rebuke, but it might’ve sounded that way. Like I was blaming him for not being here more.
Like I was trying to make him feel guilty.
When I open my mouth to explain, he interrupts me.
“I know you’re not giving me shit.”
I whisper, “Okay. Good.”
But there’s tension in his body. I’m pretty sure I can hear him grinding his teeth.
“You’d be justified, though,” he says, his voice low. “This arrangement can’t be easy for you.”
My heart flutters. I bite my lip, trying not to ask him what I want to ask him, but finally give in to the urge and say it anyway. “Is it easy for you?”
He inhales and exhales slowly, turning his face to my neck. Close to my ear, he whispers, “It’s fucking torture, baby.”
I wait, but he doesn’t offer to change things. He doesn’t offer to fix it. No matter how difficult it might be for us to see each other only every once in a while, it looks like that will continue.
Because for whatever reason, Kage doesn’t want to change the status quo.
For my safety, supposedly. But aren’t I just as vulnerable here, with the police breathing down my neck and my stalker ex-boyfriend plotting who knows what in retaliation for me pulling an Annie Oakley on him?
Maybe. Maybe not. I’ll never know, because he’ll never tell me.
That thought makes me unspeakably sad.
When I bury my face into the pillow, sighing, Kage whispers, “What if…?”
My eyes snap open, and my heart starts to pound. “What if what?”
“What if I moved you closer to me? New Jersey has some nice suburbs—”
“New Jersey?”
“Martha’s Vineyard, then. It’s gorgeous there.”
I’m trying not to get angry, but heat is already working its way up my neck. “It’s also in Massachusetts. You want me to move across the country and leave my whole life here just so I can live in a different state from you?”
“It’s only a five-hour drive from Manhattan.”
My voice rises. “Only?”
He exhales. “Fuck. You’re right. Forget it.”
I spin around in his arms and face him, staring at him through the shadows. His eyes are closed. His jaw is set. It looks like he’s decided this is the end of the conversation.
Guess I’ll have to set him straight about that.
“Kage. Look at me.”
Keeping his eyes closed, he says curtly, “Go to sleep.”
This bossy, hardheaded, infuriating man. The longer I know him, the more blood pressure medication I’ll have to take.
“No. We’re going to talk about this. Right now.”
“You know what the definition of a stalemate is? This, right here. We can’t fix this, no matter how much talking we do. So go to sleep.”
“Kage, listen to me—”
He sits up, pushes me onto my back, and straddles my body. Then he gets right into my face and starts shouting.
“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. The best thing, and also hands-down the fucking worst, because of who I am and what I do and all the shit that goes along with that. I can never have the white picket fence, Natalie. I can never have Sunday brunch with friends or Thanksgiving with the in-laws or picnics in the park or any of the other things normal people do, because I’ll never be normal.
“My life doesn’t belong to me, do you understand? I made a vow. I took an oath and sealed it with blood. The Bratva is my family. The Brotherhood is my life. And there’s no way out of it. Blood in, no out. Not ever.”
His voice breaks. “Not even for love.”
Pulse pounding, my whole body trembling, I stare up at his beautiful face and anguished eyes, so full of pain and darkness, and realize what he’s telling me.
We’re doomed.
I suppose I already knew it. This thing between us isn’t built to last. Aside from the logistics of trying to maintain a relationship while living three thousand miles apart, raw passion like ours isn’t sustainable.
The hotter it burns, the faster it flames out.
Add the mafia as the cherry on top of our fucked-up sundae, and you’ve got a tragedy in the making.
So what else is new? It’s not like my life so far has been a romantic comedy.
I reach up and frame his face in my hands, the scruff on his jaw rough and springy under my fingertips. “I hear you. But you’re forgetting something.”
He waits, tense and unblinking, his gaze drilling into mine.
I whisper, “I’m a ride or die. All in or nothing. It doesn’t matter where we live or how far apart we are. I’m yours. You make your vows in blood, but I make them with my heart. And my heart belongs to you now. I don’t need a picket fence or picnics in the park. I only need what you give me. And it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever known.”
After a moment, he says roughly, “Which is?”
“Yourself.”
His eyes flutter closed. He swallows and moistens his lips. Then he rolls to his back, flips me on top of him, and exhales hard, staring up at the ceiling as he cradles my head in one hand and hugs me hard against his chest.
We fall asleep like that, hearts beating in time in the darkness, all our problems and the world outside waiting to break us apart held back for a while as we sleep, entangled, dreaming of a place we could be together without hiding.
A place without blood oaths or gunfights or heartache.
A place without secrets or revenge or regret.
A place that doesn’t exist, at least not for us.
