vent.”
I bite my lip, torn between disappointment at all the could have s and resentment that the solution isn't that easy, and queasy anxiety at the amount of bloody cuts that he endured. “Well, it's a good thing he gave us needle and thread.”
Allen and I trade a glance, him catching on faster than Calder. “You aren't gonna like this part, Cal.” Allen smiles, but it's not exactly reassuring. Since he's trying to play good cop, I go for bad.
“Some of these are deep enough, they're gonna need stitches.” I squeeze him sympathetically.
“Can you—” Allen appeals to me. “I've got shitty wrists, and my sewing's laughable. Plus I can't stand blood.”
“After all this, you can't stand blood?” Calder says with a chuckle.
Allen starts to interrupt angrily, and I cut him off, louder. “I've got it. You may want to avert your eyes, though.”
I take the bloody vodka bottle from Calder, and he wraps his hand around mine, and it. “Don't use too much of that.”
“Hmm?”
“We should save some in case we need it later, and I think we all deserve a drink, after this.”
“But it'll get infected—”
“One should be plenty, Mil.” He smiles. “Besides. I've got my priorities set right now. I'll chance it.”
I shrug and pull my hand away. “As you wish.”
I don't dare say it to him, but inwardly, I like that acceptance of death. It makes it feel like we're on the same page. It makes me feel we understand each other.
Chapter Eleven
Calder
“Umm,” Milla hesitates with an embarrassed sigh. “Do you want to take off your pants? We don't have bandages or anything, so it might be a little awkward having the edges of the stitches brushing against them, for a few days at least. Plus, I can repair the rips while they're off.”
I can't resist teasing her. “Baby, if you wanted to ogle me, all you had to do was ask.”
She snorts, torn between being offended, and being relieved I still have a sense of humor about things. That half-smile puts me at ease, and I reach for my pants, only to realize that the articulate motions to unbutton them are a little beyond my traumatized and slick hands.
“Do I have to do everything ?” she teases back, and reaches for me. Her long fingers slide beneath my waistband as she works the button, and just the hint of her skin against mine jolts through me, stronger than the adrenaline rush I found in that dark, deadly room.
I rest my chin against the top of her head while she works, undoing the button, and the zipper, and guiding them off my hips gently. She holds them at mid-thigh and kneels, holding the fabric away from my damaged calves while I step out. Even though I should be flattered by the depth of care in the gesture, those thoughts are crowded out by others: the way those parted lips would feel wrapped around my cock again, and how it would feel to fist my hands in her hair. Her downcast eyes and focused face, so close to my cock, as though she hardly dares breathe. Mil's a vision, one I never thought to see again.
“Let's get you off your feet again,” she says, tipping her chin up to look at me. The eye contact doesn't exactly help me stay focused, and I sit back down in a daze, only vaguely aware of the relief in my bloodied feet.
Milla sanitizes my wounds and stitches them carefully, not apologizing for the pain she's causing as the dental floss pulls through my skin. She's unusually quiet, but it's probably concentration. I can't watch her while she works; at the first prick, nausea overwhelmed me. So she sits by my side to work, Denise's flashlight in her mouth, aimed at each raw incision.
A particularly deep stab, tugged through roughly, sends a wave of dizziness through me, and I fight to focus on the ceiling. “You're enjoying this, aren't you?”
She pauses, and takes the flashlight out of her mouth. “Just a little. I'm not a delicate little blossom, you know. You could have sent me up, too, and come up behind me. I
I bite my lip, torn between disappointment at all the could have s and resentment that the solution isn't that easy, and queasy anxiety at the amount of bloody cuts that he endured. “Well, it's a good thing he gave us needle and thread.”
Allen and I trade a glance, him catching on faster than Calder. “You aren't gonna like this part, Cal.” Allen smiles, but it's not exactly reassuring. Since he's trying to play good cop, I go for bad.
“Some of these are deep enough, they're gonna need stitches.” I squeeze him sympathetically.
“Can you—” Allen appeals to me. “I've got shitty wrists, and my sewing's laughable. Plus I can't stand blood.”
“After all this, you can't stand blood?” Calder says with a chuckle.
Allen starts to interrupt angrily, and I cut him off, louder. “I've got it. You may want to avert your eyes, though.”
I take the bloody vodka bottle from Calder, and he wraps his hand around mine, and it. “Don't use too much of that.”
“Hmm?”
“We should save some in case we need it later, and I think we all deserve a drink, after this.”
“But it'll get infected—”
“One should be plenty, Mil.” He smiles. “Besides. I've got my priorities set right now. I'll chance it.”
I shrug and pull my hand away. “As you wish.”
I don't dare say it to him, but inwardly, I like that acceptance of death. It makes it feel like we're on the same page. It makes me feel we understand each other.
Chapter Eleven
Calder
“Umm,” Milla hesitates with an embarrassed sigh. “Do you want to take off your pants? We don't have bandages or anything, so it might be a little awkward having the edges of the stitches brushing against them, for a few days at least. Plus, I can repair the rips while they're off.”
I can't resist teasing her. “Baby, if you wanted to ogle me, all you had to do was ask.”
She snorts, torn between being offended, and being relieved I still have a sense of humor about things. That half-smile puts me at ease, and I reach for my pants, only to realize that the articulate motions to unbutton them are a little beyond my traumatized and slick hands.
“Do I have to do everything ?” she teases back, and reaches for me. Her long fingers slide beneath my waistband as she works the button, and just the hint of her skin against mine jolts through me, stronger than the adrenaline rush I found in that dark, deadly room.
I rest my chin against the top of her head while she works, undoing the button, and the zipper, and guiding them off my hips gently. She holds them at mid-thigh and kneels, holding the fabric away from my damaged calves while I step out. Even though I should be flattered by the depth of care in the gesture, those thoughts are crowded out by others: the way those parted lips would feel wrapped around my cock again, and how it would feel to fist my hands in her hair. Her downcast eyes and focused face, so close to my cock, as though she hardly dares breathe. Mil's a vision, one I never thought to see again.
“Let's get you off your feet again,” she says, tipping her chin up to look at me. The eye contact doesn't exactly help me stay focused, and I sit back down in a daze, only vaguely aware of the relief in my bloodied feet.
Milla sanitizes my wounds and stitches them carefully, not apologizing for the pain she's causing as the dental floss pulls through my skin. She's unusually quiet, but it's probably concentration. I can't watch her while she works; at the first prick, nausea overwhelmed me. So she sits by my side to work, Denise's flashlight in her mouth, aimed at each raw incision.
A particularly deep stab, tugged through roughly, sends a wave of dizziness through me, and I fight to focus on the ceiling. “You're enjoying this, aren't you?”
She pauses, and takes the flashlight out of her mouth. “Just a little. I'm not a delicate little blossom, you know. You could have sent me up, too, and come up behind me. I
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