Page 80 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

I’ll do it myself. The words are right at the tip of my tongue. Instead, I say, “We clean the wound first, then numb it with the lidocaine, then stitch.” I sit on one of the stools at the island and lay my arm flat on the marble. “You can help by handing me things and holding the skin when I tell you to.”

“Right.” He pulls up a stool across from me, close enough that our knees almost touch. “Fair warning, I nearly failed biology.”

I nearly smile despite myself.

“You don’t need biology. You just need to follow instructions.”

“That I can do.”

I clean the wound, gritting my teeth against the burn of the antiseptic. Finn passes me gauze without being asked. The lidocaine goes in next, small injections around the wound that leave my arm feeling thick and far away. I flex my fingers, waiting for the numbness to settle.

Finn is close. Close enough that I can feel the warmth coming off him, though he doesn’t seem aware of it at all. He’s watching my hands work, intent, like watching closely enough might make it hurt less.

“How many times have you stitched yourself up?” Finn asks quietly.

“Three. Hold it closed for me.” He does, his fingers pinching the edges of the cut together, and I slide the needle through. “Four, after tonight.”

“And other people?”

“More than I can count.” The needle goes through again, neat and even.

He doesn’t say anything for a while, just watches me pull the thread taut and tie it off.

“How do you do it?” he asks. “All of this. The fighting, the injuries, everything.”

“I do what I have to do,” I say simply.

“That’s not really an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.” Another stitch, another knot. “In my line of work, getting through it is what matters. Everything else comes second.”

His attention is fixed on me now, his face inches from mine. I don’t look up.

“That sounds like a hard way to live.” He says it carefully, almost like he feels sorry for me.

I want to tell him that how I live my life is none of his business, not when he knows nothing about what it costs. But I stop myself, because he’s here, helping me, his hands steady on the wound of a woman he barely knows at one in the morning. He just wants to help.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion on how I live,” I say, doing my best to keep my voice even.

He takes that without a word. I focus on the wound, on the rhythm of needle and thread, on anything but his fingers, steady and warm against my skin.

By the eighth stitch I’m done.

“Done,” I say, tying off the last one.

Finn leans in to look. The stitches are neat and even, the wound closed clean.

“That’s impressive,” he says. “Disturbing, but impressive.”

“I’ll take it.”

He helps me bandage the arm. When we’re done I reach for the clean shirt and pull it over my head. Soft, worn cotton that must smell like him, though my suppressants are doing their job and dulling my sense of smell to almost nothing. Thankfully.

But Finn hasn’t moved back. The arm’s bandaged, the job’s done, and he’s still close, so close. His eyes are on my arm, but I can tell he’s thinking about something else.

Then he asks softly, “Do you ever think about that night?”

He doesn’t have to say which one. There’s only ever been the one, sitting between us like a ticking time bomb since the day I walked back into his life at Synthera.