Page 55 of Kill for a Kiss

I look down at her. Her eyes open wider, but they’re glassy with exhaustion. My pulse kicks harder, searing more urgency under my ribs.

“I need to roll your pants up. Okay, Elle?”

She blinks slowly, eyes still unfocused, but she nods without hesitation. “Okay.”

That single word slices deeper than it should. She shouldn’t trust me like this, so blindly, without question. But I crave it, the sickening thrill of her absolute surrender. It smolders the fire in my chest.

I peel the fabric back, slow and precise, until the edge catches against her knee. The grafts come into clearer view beneath the harsh light. My throat tightens sharply, guilt landing deep, but I shove it aside. No time for feelings. Not right now when I need to find what Clo put in Elle.

My fingers tremble as I run them along the scarred flesh, searching for something Clo would have buried deep, beneath trauma and memory. After a moment that feels like forever, my fingers find a tiny, unnatural bump under her skin. Rage singes through me, white-hot and furious. I hiss between my teeth, retrieving a knife from my pocket, flicking it open.

“Elle,” I force out, my voice harsh with barely restrained fury. “I need to cut this out.”

She exhales, slightly shaky, but her glassy gaze holds mine. “Okay.”

She shouldn’t let me. She shouldn’t trust me this much. My chest tightens painfully at the thought. Kys is still in her veins, clouding her, or maybe she believes in me. For now, holding onto hope is enough to steady my hands.

I press the blade carefully against her skin. She sucks in a quick, sharp breath when I slice cleanly through the graft.

It’s all muscle memory for me, I tell myself, even if it takes all of me to stop my trembling hands.

Blood wells up her leg, crimson spilling slowly over her pale skin, vivid and accusing. The guilt and anguish rise so fast it blinds me. I’ve never reacted this way after I’ve cut someone else open. But it’smehurting heragain. Even if it’s to save her,I keep hurting her.

Forcing myself to get it the fuck together, I feel the quelch of her warm muscle. My fingers dig carefully, just deep enough until I finally grab hold of that damn tracker. And when I do, I pinch it between my fingers, fury flashing through me as I untangle it free from her flesh with a few more precise, swift cuts from my pocketknife. Her breath hitches with every flick of my wrist, her eyes widening and snapping into clarity with every cut and every drop of her blood on my fingers.

I hold the tracker up for her to see, dripping red. “Clo did this to you,” I growl, shaking with violent rage I can hardly suppress.

She stares at it, confusion and fear flickering across her face. I crush the tracker in my fist before I realize I’m doing it. Clo will pay for this. Elle won’t ever be hunted again. I’ll make sure of it.

I move across the room in a blur, rip the first-aid kit open, and dig for a needle and thread. My fingers won’t cooperate. The tools slip. The spool unwinds. I curse under my breath and try again, still trembling like a damn rookie. Frustration chokes me, tears of anger stinging my eyes. My mask is gone, so there’s nothing to shield me from her stare.

Still, I kneel beside her, hands shaking, breath unsteady. It’s just a simple stitch. I’ve done this a hundred times before, but never onher. Because it’s Elle. And hurting her shatters me.

I’ve stitched worse wounds. Done it with broken ribs, with bulletsstill inside me. But this is Elle. I can’t keep hurting her. With a rough inhale, I try to steady the needle, but my fingers slip, unable to keep a grip.

“Fuck,” I whisper, deep and desperate.

Elle watches me, pale and wobbling, but a bit clear-eyed now. She reaches for the needle. Her hands are slower than mine, but so much steadier. I watch her in awe when she takes it from my hands.

“Elle—”

“It’s okay,” she whispers.

Then she easily slides the thread through the eye of the needle. Bending down over her own bleeding leg, she pierces herself. Her hands flow, careful stitches closing the woundIcreated.

I watch every torturous second. My lungs barely move. She shouldn’t be doing this. She shouldn’t have to fix what I broke. I’ve never felt this fucking useless. And I hate myself for it. But I—

Iloveher.

The realization hits me like a gunshot. One I can’t dodge. One that hits me straight in my beating chest.

I love her.

The thought burns through my chest, fierce and unrelenting, searing everything else away. I never knew love, not from anyone who should’ve taught me what it meant. I never understood it, until now.

Until Elle, who’s stitching herself up without complaint, who trusts me even when I’m the blade who cut into her skin. All while she’s fighting against withdrawals from drugs forced down her throat.

My heart slams violently in my chest, the truth tearing through me.I love her. And now, I can’t imagine a single day without earning her trust. Earningher.