Page 11 of Toxic
I press my lips together and nod,sniffling.
“He hit you?” he asks, and I lift a shoulder. His hand drops to my shoulder before sliding down my arm to rest on my waist where it tightens. “He hurt youagain?”
Unable to look at him any longer, I pull my hands from his face and take antibacterial wipes from my kit to disinfect the cut on his temple as hetalks.
He tips my chin up and repeats thequestion.
“What do you think?” There’s no way in hell I’ll submit myself to the humiliation of recounting this morning to anyone, let alone him. Distracted, I press too hard with the antibacterial wipe, which makes himgrunt.
“Sorry,” I sayabsentmindedly.
“You didn’t tell me he was the warden, littlemouse.”
“You seem to think everything about me is your business,” I comment instead of answering. “I thought you would have knownalready.”
I gather more antibacterial wipes and begin mopping the blood away from his skin. There are thin, vicious cuts along his chest and abdomen. Nothing serious, but they’re making a god-awful mess and must hurt like a bitch. The bruising on his ribs is going to make breathing difficult for the next few days, but I don’t see anything life-threatening. I tell him as much as I finish inspecting hiswounds.
He doesn’t address his injuries, choosing to continue to pry. “You seem to think you aren’t mybusiness.”
“Probably because I’m not. I’m not sure what makes you think you have the right to interfere, but I don’t need to be saved. I don’t need anythingfromyou.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I think I’m exactly whatyouneed.”
I don’t speak for a few long minutes, unsure of where he’s going with this. It was stupid of me to indulge in those long glances at him. Stupid of me to admit anything to him about my personal life. I knew I’d be paying for it at some point, and this new familiarity with him must be theprice.
“How can you be what I need when I don’t even know your name?” I find myself saying as I apply numbing cream to thebruises.
He reclines underneath my ministrations as though he enjoys my touch and smiles. The corners of his eyes crinkle and I wonder how old he is. Old enough to have made some incredibly bad decision that landed him in prison as a VIP guest courtesy of the United Statesgovernment.
Then again, I’m only twenty-seven and have done a bang-up job of fucking up my own life, so what doIknow?
My heart leaps inside the confines of my ribs when he says, “Is that you askin’ for my name,sweetheart?”
My hands flexon his skin, but he's so intent on my response he either doesn't notice or doesn't care. Beneath my touch, he turns to granite and a part of me wants to take back my question, but Ican’t.
“What's wrong?” I ask, and I hope it deflects from this line of conversation. “Did Ihurtyou?”
He breaks eye contact and looks down to where my hands are touching his skin. The moment his eyes land on where our bodies connect, it makes me want to drop my hand. How close he always manages to get to me whenever I let curiosity—or stupidity—get the better of me isastounding.
"Would take more than that to hurt me, littlemouse."
I feel his words like dark secrets. They unfurl inside me, a molten mixture of pleasure and shame, a heady combination that invites me to ask for more. He's a craving I can't quite shake. A disease slowly spreading through me. My head tells me I should walk away, but my greedy heart begs for more of his illicitattention.
"Little mouse?" I keep my focus on my fingers. Otherwise, they'll betray my nerves. I swipe antibacterial cream over his skin and realize resistance is practically impossible. Not when I can feel his muscles flexing underneath my hands, the heat coming off him in waves, and my body's answeringthrum.
It has been so long since I’ve felt anything other than violence and fear. The two have become so tightly intertwined that I was certain until now I'd never feel this again. Never feel warmth pooling low in my belly and radiating through my core or the answering wetness slicking betweenmylegs.
Horror accompanies the rush of pleasure, and I want to fling myself backward, but I know I can't let this dangerous man see my reaction. I can't let him know the effect he has on me. Can't let him have that kind of poweroverme.
"Yes,” he finally says. “Because you always look like you want to scurry away into a cornerandhide."
His words make me want to do exactly that. My eyes dance to the door and then back to my hand as I swipe away another smear of blood from his skin. It would be so easy to escape him and his all-too-knowing stare. The reaction I can't deny. The yearning. Ten steps would bring me right back to my dreary life where I can drown in the day-to-day misery and the pain that blots out my unfortunatereality.
They are ten steps I don’t take. I refuse to let King get the better of me again and return to doctoring his wounds, trading the wipes for clean, white bandages. Unlike Vic, when this man pressures me, tests my boundaries, I find myself wanting to fight back, wanting to go at him with teeth bared and fistsballed.
He lays a big, scratched-up hand over mine, pinning it to the heated flesh of his well-muscled chest. I peer up through my lashes and find the corner of his mouth tipped up in a half smile that would look pleasant on anyotherman.
On King, it's awarning.