Page 6 of King of Shadows

I’m used to people tensing when I clean wounds like this, but this guy simply sits there with his eyes closed, completely still.

“You know,” he says after a moment, “I thought you were going to call the police when you went into your bedroom.”

I continue cleaning. “I thought about it.”

His eyes open, and he looks directly at me. “What changed your mind?”

I shrug. “I just figured I don’t have the energy for this tonight. I’m exhausted. The last thing I want to do is go down to a police station, give a report, answer a million questions, and spend even more time talking to people.”

I gesture toward him. “Talking to you is already enough.”

That smirk appears again. There it is. That stupid smirk that does something strange to my insides every single time.

I do my best to focus on the wound. “So why were those men after you?”

“You don’t need to worry about that. The less you know, the better.”

Of course. What was I expecting?

“Can I at least know your name? You’re in my apartment,” I add. “I’m treating your wound. That’s the least you can give me.”

He studies me.

“Kazimir.” A pause. “It’s Russian.”

Oh. So that explains the accent. “It’s unique,” I say.

His gaze stays on me. “And you?”

“Chloe.”

He repeats it, and the slight accent in his voice makes my name sound different somehow. Softer. Almost sexy.

I like the way it sounds coming from him. More than I should. And there’s a strange little part of me that wants to hear him say it again.

I tamp down the odd, off-kilter feeling inside me. After I clean and disinfect his wound, I check it over once more. “Professionally speaking, your wound needs stitches.”

His eyes lift to mine. “Then do it.”

I stare at him for a second. “I don’t have any anesthesia.”

He shrugs as if I’m telling him we’re out of milk. “Go ahead.”

I look at him shocked. How high can one man’s pain threshold be? “You’re going to be in pain.”

His smirk widens. “Ah. You’re worried about me.”

I roll my eyes. “Whatever. Your funeral.”

I turn away and prep what I have and start stitching. He barely reacts. The only give is the slight curl of his fingers against his thigh.

“So what do you do?” I ask, mostly to fill the silence.

“Business.”

I glance up. “What kind of business?”

“Business.”