I nod and carefully place a bandage over his wound. “Does anyone want you dead? If we can rule that out, we’ll know they came for Al.”
King pauses, his eyes searching mine. “Did you tell your dad that I know about the abuse?”
“No,” I say, scowling at him. “Why would I tell him that?”
He looks at the window again. “I thought… Maybe he’d come after me if I knew.”
I sit back on my heels. “What? Why?”
He gives me a long look, until the realization sets in.
“I told you it wasn’t him,” I snap. “My father would never do that to me. He loves me. I know what people say about him, and when it comes to women, maybe it’s true. But what’s he supposed to do, be celibate for the rest of his life because his wife won’t talk to him? And maybe he had his little things on the side before that, but it’s not like they were happy, anyway. It was arranged, just like this. My mom never loved him, never wanted him.”
We stare at each other for a long minute, and I realize I’ve said way too much. He doesn’t need to know all that about my family.
“Like you,” he says quietly. “That’s why you think I’m going to fuck around. Because you don’t want me, the same way your mom didn’t want your dad. And that’s what he did.”
I raise my chin and glare at him. “He’s a good dad, King. As good as he could be, under the circumstances. He had plenty of girlfriends, yeah, but he’d never, ever lay a finger on me.”
“Okay,” he says.
For a minute, we sit there in silence, our wills battling each other. I need him to know that I’d never lie about that, that my father is a good man, even if he’s also a violent monster with a temper when it comes to his job. But never to me. To me, he was the stressed out, overworked dad who had so many obligations that he had to choose between leaving me with more nannies in the evenings or taking me along. I wanted to be with him, and he loved me, so he made the choice that maybe wasn’t ideal, but it’s the one that made me happy.
He chose to take me along, hence the poker games and emergency meetings to talk strategy, the bullet removals at two in the morning, and the certainty that he would never, ever leave me behind if our families were going to war. He wouldn’t send guys to do a job in broad daylight. He’d never have his men cover their faces with masks, either. King may not be convinced, but I can say with complete confidence that this was not my father’s doing.
“You can get cleaned up now,” I say. “But try not to get it wet for a few days.”
“I guess it’s good you fixed me up,” King says, swinging his legs off the bed. “I’d probably have gotten blood on the sheets.”
The image catches in my mind, the comments people made about our wedding night. I’m the one who’s supposed to bleed on the sheets. Maybe he’s thinking the same thing, because he quickly stands and heads for the bathroom to clean up while I put my things away.
He stops in the doorway of the bathroom, turning back. “Eliza?” he says.
“Hmm,” I say, not looking at him as I set aside the bloody instruments that need disinfecting.
“Thank you.”
I shrug. “It’s nothing.”
Our eyes meet, and his dark gaze is so intense it makes me squirm. “It’s something.”
This time, I’m the one who looks away. Sometimes it feels like those espresso eyes pierce straight into my soul.
He hesitates a moment, then steps into the bathroom and closes the door. I’m glad he’s gone, that he doesn’t see me close my eyes to collect myself, doesn’t guess at the shivery, fluttery feeling turning my insides all around.
It’s been a long day, and an even longer evening, and I decide to just go to bed and be done with it. A while later, King comes out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. I close my eyes and pretend to sleep, but tonight I peek through my lashes. King’s not especially modest, but he doesn’t parade around naked in front of me, either. I’ve only ever seen him naked once, and I’m ready for more.
His hair is wet and his body clean, little droplets of water clinging to his skin where he washed, lit up by the golden light filtering into the bedroom from the open bathroom door. He glances at me as if to check if I’m sleeping before he drops the towel and turns to the dresser. He has a scar on his side, above his hip, and if I had to guess, I’d say it’s less than a year old. It looks like another bullet wound, though he didn’t correct me when I said today was his first. It makes me wonder because I thought he was new to the Life. I watch the curve of his ass, how nicely muscled his butt is, the strong, lean muscles of his thighs. When he turns away from the dresser, I can just see the shape of his cock hanging down, and it makes butterflies explode inside my belly.
I had that inside my mouth. Warmth shimmers through my lower belly, and my mouth puckers with saliva just looking at the shape of it. Even when it’s not hard, I can see he’s big. And not just big, but nice looking, all smooth and straight and well-groomed. I wish the light was on, that I could see more. I know I shouldn’t, that I’m spying, but it makes my heart race in a familiar, exciting way. It’s all I can do not to let out a sigh of disappointment when he pulls on a pair of sweats, wincing when he drags them up over his injured thigh.
A minute later, he sinks onto the edge of the bed and strokes my hair back with his good hand. “Eliza?” he whispers. “You awake?”
I don’t move, don’t answer. I let my lids relax closed so he won’t see a glint between my lashes. My heart is beating so loud in my ears I think he’ll hear it, that he’ll know I’m awake, that I was watching, that butterflies are swarming in my belly and warmth coiling beneath it.
He leans down and presses his lips gently to my forehead. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so fucking sorry about everything.”
Without waiting for an answer, he gets up and walks out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.