Page 47 of Convict's Game

Perhaps I’d been too hasty in quitting sex work. It was the job I’d known and the work that had kept my head above water sinceI was fourteen and forced to endure what I’d eventually own and turn into a career.

My loyal clients asked after me all the time. The girls told me I was missed.

Sex work never made me feel shame.

Though it left a strangely sour taste in my mouth, there was only one way to find out if I had any kind of future with the skeleton crew. Because what I was trying definitely wasn’t it.

Chapter 18

Mila

My breathing slowed, and I relaxed on the blanket next to Convict. He had his lips parted and his eyes closed, his wrists still chained to the bedframe. I’d cleaned us up with his t-shirt, almost surprised at how I didn’t instantly want to leave.

“Do you want me to untie you?”

“Up to you. You’re safer this way. Now I know what an orgasm feels like, I’m going to be all over you.”

A shiver ran through me at the promise, but I pursed my lips. “You are overegging the amnesia thing.”

He grinned. “Probably. Or maybe I just don’t want the old memories. The newer ones are better.”

With freedom to stare at him, I took my time examining every feature. He was so pretty. Now he’d relaxed, he was back to the boy-next-door sweetness I’d first seen in him. My focus held on the white bandage that covered him from wrist to elbow. “Is the damage to your arm from the same accident that hurt your head?”

His eyes opened, and he followed my gaze, then lifted his chin in agreement. “I was undercover. The building caught on fire, and I was in the cellar. I barely got out with my life. Everyone here thought I was dead.”

I swallowed and lightly touched my fingers to his temple where his fresh scar cut into his hair.

Convict nuzzled into my touch. “If you want, you can take the bandage off my arm. I don’t need it anymore.”

I peeled back the tape, slowly exposing the skin underneath as the bandage came away. His skin was healed but scarred far worse than the dent on his head, though it was hard to see with his arm still restrained.

Convict watched the wall. “I’m guessing my ink is fucked?”

“You haven’t looked at it?”

“Can’t bring myself to.”

Climbing off the bed, I found the key, then knelt over him to unlock his handcuffs. Instantly, he held my waist then rolled us so he was looming over me, my legs wide around him.

His gaze searched mine. “Make me.”

Make him look? I guided his arm to my chest, laying it across my body over the grey shirt. His gaze flicked down.

This was a strange trust exercise. There was something so vulnerable in his eyes, as if he was afraid of what he might see.

His tone returned tighter, reflecting the turmoil in his expression. “Like I suspected. It’s fucked. The mashed-up tattoo is meant to be a skull with a bandanna.”

I traced my fingertips up his arm like I had the right, though I kept my gaze on his. “To represent the skeleton crew.”

“It was. Now it’s a freak show. Hopefully not an indication of what happens when Arran returns.”

I held my hand over the scarred flesh. “It isn’t that bad.”

“For real?”

“Considering you could’ve died, a few battle scars are a good trade-off.”

A small part of his tension lifted. He’d been worried about this. About how it appeared to others. It gave me another clue as to what made up this man.