Page 37 of Threads That Bind Us
“Do you have a first aid kit?” she asks sheepishly.
I look sideways at her and catch her gaze before rolling my eyes with a smile. She grimaces, and I reach into thecabinet over the refrigerator to grab the kit, tossing it on the peninsula.
“You were right,” I admit, unzipping the case and finding the antiseptic. “Everything I did tonight was out of line. It’s not an excuse, but this is what I’m used to. Manipulating everyone around me to fit my plan. It’s something that I don’t want to do with you,” I say, glancing up at her as she leans against the counter. “But you’re allowed to keep stabbing me until I learn to handle myself better.”
A smile kicks up at the corner of her lips, but she rolls them between her teeth to squash it. There isn’t too much bleeding, but I rifle through the kit again, looking for bandages.
“Let me,” she says, suddenly in front of me. She takes my hand, skin so soft and smooth against mine.
There’s an electric current where we touch, igniting my whole body. I swallow down the feeling, hoping if I don’t react, she won’t let go.
She finds a larger bandage and unwraps it, carefully placing antiseptic on the pad and smoothing the sticky ends around the contours of my knuckles.
“You will not treat either of us like that again,” she says quietly, the threat seductive and lethal as she runs her fingertip over the edge of the bandage. “You will figure out a way to appropriately negotiate our contract, to communicate with me, or you will find out what happens when someone wrongs me twice. Do you understand?”
Our gazes lock, and despite the malice in her question, her expression is almost sweet. I want to taste it. I want to taste all of her.
But I just nod, and she smiles before dropping my hand and heading toward the hallway. The part of me that lacks self preservation begs me to ask her to stay in my bed. For appearances, of course. But I somehow keep the words from pouringout of me as she makes her way toward what I can only assume is the guest room Ana’s not sleeping in.
Right before she disappears around the corner, she looks over her shoulder.
“Oh, and now that timelines are up for negotiation, I’m making some requests,” she says, her tone light and airy. “I’m looking forward to learning the family business, Charlie.”
Chapter 13
Charlie
At first I thought I’d won this little exchange. Sure, I might be bringing Gwen into the family business a little early here, but it seemed like an easy concession if I got to have her under my roof sooner. She’d eventually learn that her taste for violence is what drew me to her.
As I watch her walk down the stairs behind the glass door, I realize I was very,verywrong. Because the last time I watched her kill someone, I could barely contain my attraction to her. And now I’m about to witness it again, and I can’t fucking touch her.
I don’t pray—what god would listen? But I mutter a request for strength to the universe as Gwen hits the landing. I told her to dress comfortably, in clothes she didn’t mind incinerating. Hair pulled back, in a form-fitting, long-sleeved shirt and jeans, she looks like she could be running errands. Like joining me in bleeding my enemies dry is almost domestic. I can’t seem to remove my hand from over my mouth.
“Hi,” she says simply as I open the door for her, her breath puffing in front of her lips. Her cheeks flush from the cold.
Or maybe the flush is from something else entirely. I wish Iwas imagining the way her eyes travel down my frame and back up, the hint of something carnal in them. It’s fuel to the spark lit between us, and I try my best to dampen it as I take her arm and lead her carefully to the car.
I want nothing more than to lean into the feeling, stoke the flame, see if it consumes her the way it does me. But even if we share a mutual attraction, I can’t push. I’ll never know if she’s only reciprocating because she believes she has to in order to take care of Ana. And even if, somehow, I could be certain, she’d never want the version of me I crave to be around her. Not with what she’s about to witness.
The drive to the farm is long and quiet. Dusk is settling over the treetops, pinks and purples flashing over Gwen’s skin as she leans back against the headrest, staring at the world whipping by. I still can’t tell if she’s nervous, but I know she’ll talk when she’s ready.
There’s no music, but she doesn’t seem to mind, and neither do I. I love the sound of the road under my tires, the soft hum lulling me into imagining what it would be like to drive down these roads on my motorcycle, with Gwen wrapped around me.
That image keeps me occupied until we’re finally pulling through the gates of the farm. Gwen perks up, her eyes wide as we make our way up the winding dirt road. I feel her gaze on the side of my face when the pigs come into view, and I keep my eyes forward despite the smile pulling at my lips.
Emily’s car is parked near the front door, sleek, clean, and out of place against the rustic setting. When she offered to be here for Gwen’s first introduction to our work, I was hesitant. I wanted this moment to be between the two of us, to be intimate. But Emily was right—I’m not always the most self-aware when I become this version of myself, and I don’t want to scare Gwen.
Once the engine is off, I turn toward her. She’s got her arms crossed under her chest, nails digging her into her own skin. She’s avoiding my gaze, and that just won’t do anymore.
“Gwen,” I say softly, breaking the bubble of silence we created. She takes a steadying breath through her nose and turns to me, her jaw clenched and her eyes guarded. “Emily, my cousin, will be inside, and she’s going to help me explain some things. Then you and I will go downstairs.” I reach out and grab her hand, smoothing my fingers over the indents she’s made in her arm with her nails. “At any point, you can go upstairs. There is no shame in not being able to handle what’s about to happen. Torturing someone is very different from what you experienced last summer. It takes longer and it’s exhausting, physically and psychologically.” I brush my thumb over her hand and her eyes flicker down to the motion before meeting mine again.
“I understand,” she says, swallowing hard.
Her guard is still up as I search her expression, and I haven’t yet learned how to read her well enough to unearth what she’s hiding. I want to dig, but I have to trust her to know her own limits, or to be willing to learn them.
I nod, unbuckle my seatbelt, and slip out of the car, opening her door before she can do it herself. She follows me into the main house, our footsteps disguised by the distant noise of hungry pigs.
Emily’s sitting on the old couch, her back against the armrest and her feet propped up on the cushions. Unsurprisingly, her laptop sits open on her thighs, and she only looks up when the door closes behind us.