Splinters of You (Retired Sinners MC #1) - Anne Malcom Page 0,92

traced the lines and ridges of his hands.

“You’re gonna need stitches,” he said, turning over my arm.

I blinked, and the arm that had but a scratch was now covered in blood. There was a small splatter of stains on the dirty carpet. The tips of Saint’s fingers were covered.

Pain, sharp and biting, pulled me back down from whatever state I’d been in. It was a scratch. I’d been so sure of that when it happened. It hadn’t even hurt.

But now, through the blood and flesh, I was pretty sure I could see the white of bone peeking out. The knife marked me down to the bone. I’d be scarred on the outside and the inside.

That made sense.

“Can you do it?” I asked, looking up from my arm, feeling vaguely dizzy. Not because I was squeamish but because I’d wear this mark for life. That’s why I never got tattoos, despite liking them. I didn’t want someone else’s touch, someone’s art, someone’s mark, on me forever.

But now I did.

For better or for worse.

Saint frowned, but didn’t argue and declare he was taking me to a hospital, no matter what I said. “Can you move your fingers?”

I winced at the pain radiating into my teeth but I moved them. Blood spurted out from my wound.

“Likely no nerve damage,” he muttered, looking down. “And didn’t hit an artery. Lucky.”

“Something like that,” I said, my voice weak and raspy.

His head snapped up. He’d heart the falter. “Deal is, you stay conscious, coherent, and I’ll stitch it up. I’ve got a kit in my truck. Gonna have to go get it. You okay here on your own?”

“Of course I am,” I scoffed, managing to sound convincing but horrified at the pure visceral fear that filtered through me at the thought of being alone in this motel room for even a handful of minutes.

He saw that, Saint did. But he didn’t push it. He stood, nodded, and turned to leave. Then he paused, turned back around. He grasped my neck, slammed his lips down on mine, and kissed me, long and hard.

Then he went to get the kit.

I was distracted enough by the kiss to realize he was gone just as he was coming back.

“You know we’ve gotta call the cops,” he said as he cut off the last thread.

My teeth released my tongue and the coppery taste of my blood flowed through my mouth.

Saint hadn’t had any hard narcotics in his truck. Just some standard antiseptics and rubbing alcohol that, halfway through, I’d seriously considered chugging.

The repairing of the wound hurt a fuck of a lot more than sustaining the wound itself.

“I know,” I said after a sharp breath, not quite sure if I was going to throw up or pass out, or both.

“Though I doubt it, there could be forensics in here,” he said, glancing around the room. He’d be careful to wear gloves, not walk around too much. I’d noted it distractedly.

“I know that too,” I agreed.

“You’re holdin’ it together well,” he said, pulling off his gloves and grasping my neck. His grip was firm, painful, though I had a new respect for pain after him having to sew what felt like my entire arm back together without drugs.

“Don’t know anyone that would sit through that”—he nodded to the neat row of stitches on my red, swollen arm—“and not pass out, scream, or lose their lunch.”

“All three were options,” I admitted. My words flowed out without me trying to hold on to them first, make sure they didn’t give too much away, weren’t too honest.

“Also don’t know anyone that would be holdin’ it together like you are after who had you in this hotel room,” he continued. His grip tightened here, voice deepening.

Though Saint was holding on to his trademark calm, it was clear it was slipping through his fingers. Made sense, since the man who’d killed his last…woman, murdered and tortured her and left her for him to find, had kidnapped his current…woman, cut her open and left her for him to find. It was pretty heavy, even for a man who seemed to be able to shoulder pretty much everything.

“You know me,” I said in response to his words. “And though I’m holding it together now, I’m sure all of this will come out in some new trauma, some new flaw.”

He nodded. “I expect it will.”

I waited. But when he didn’t say anything or move to his phone to call the police, I spoke. “You’re not gonna go off on me