Page 81 of Vicious Betrayal

"Maybe a half hour." She ties off the stitch with quick, efficient movements, then threads the needle again. Her hands are shaking now, I notice, the adrenaline clearly wearing off. "I found a first-aid kit in the bathroom. I've been trying to close the wound, but I don't know if I'm doing it right. I've never—" She swallows hard. "I've never done this before."

I look down at my shoulder. The gash is ugly, but she's managed to pull the edges together with a series of crude stitches. Blood still seeps from the wound, but it's no longer dangerous.

She saved my life. The realization sits heavily in my chest, tangling with the fury and betrayal that's been eating me alive since Greece.

"Why didn't you just leave me?" The question comes out harsher than I intend, my Irish brogue thick with pain and exhaustion. "You could've run, called your handler. Told them where I was and let them finish the job."

Her hands freeze mid-stitch. She looks down at me, her blue eyes wide and red-rimmed, her expression stricken. "I couldn't," she whispers. "Cormac, I couldn't just leave you to die."

"Why the fuck not?" I bite out, my right hand coming up to grip her thigh where it presses against my hip. My fingers dig into the denim of her jeans, hard enough to bruise. "You've been selling me out to the feds for weeks. You married me to get close enough to destroy everything I've built. Why would you give a shit if I bled out in a wrecked car?"

"Because you didn't deserve what I did to you!" The words burst out of her, and she drops the needle onto the first-aid kit beside us and presses both hands flat against my bare chest, her palms warm against my cold skin. "You didn't deserve any of it, Cormac. I know you don't believe me, and I know you hate me, but I never wanted to hurt you. I never⁠—"

Her voice breaks completely, and she bows her head, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

I should push her off. I should get up, find my gun, and put as much distance between us as possible before the feds track us down again. I should do a hundred things that aren't lying here with my wife—my enemy—straddling my hips while she cries over the man she betrayed.

But I don't move. Because even now, even after everything, I can't stop wanting her.

"I hate you," I growl, my voice low and rough. My hand slides up from her thigh to her hip, gripping hard enough to make her gasp. "I hate you for what you did to me, Oksana. For making me believe you wanted me. For making me think I could have something real with you."

"I hate you, too," she chokes out, lifting her head to glare down at me through her tears. "I hate you for being so cruel to me. For treating me like I'm nothing. For taking my rings and telling me I'm not your wife when you know—" She breaks off, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood.

"When I know what?" I demand, my grip tightening on her hip. "What the fuck did you expect me to do? You think I should've just smiled and nodded when I found out my wife was working with the FBI? You think I should've patted you on the head and told you it was grand?"

"I don't know!" she cries, her hands curling into fists against my chest. "I don't know what I expected, Cormac, but it hurt. It hurt so much when you looked at me like I was nothing. Like I never mattered to you at all."

A tear slides down her cheek. I watch it fall, and the last thread of control I've been clinging to snaps clean in half.

My right hand comes up before I can stop it, my thumb catching the tear at the curve of her jaw. Her skin is soft and warm beneath my calloused fingers, and she freezes at the contact, her breath hitching in her throat.

"You mattered," I hear myself say, the words dragged out of me against my will. "Christ, Oksana, you mattered more than anything."

Her eyes widen, fresh tears spilling over, and she turns her head and presses her mouth to my thumb.

The touch is soft and tentative, her lips warm and trembling against my skin. It's not a kiss, exactly, more like she's trying to hold onto the last piece of something we both know is already gone.

And I can't help myself. I slide my hand into her hair, my fingers tangling in the damp blonde strands, and I pull her down hard.

Our mouths collide, and she gasps against my lips. I take advantage, my tongue sweeping into her mouth, tasting salt. She kisses me back just as fiercely, her hands sliding up to frame my face, her body pressing down against mine.

It's not gentle or tender; it's angry and raw and full of all the hurt and fury we've been throwing at each other for days. And fuck, it feels so goddamn good. My cock is hard in an instant as I groan into her mouth, my right hand dropping from her hair to her hip, gripping hard as I pull her down more firmly against me. The movement sends a fresh wave of pain through my injured shoulder, but I don't give a fuck. All I care about is the weight of her on top of me, the heat of her body seeping through her clothes, the way she's kissing me like she's drowning and I'm the only air she can find.

"Cormac," she gasps against my mouth, her hips rocking forward instinctively. The friction makes me hiss through my teeth, my cock aching despite the pain and exhaustion.

"Fuck," I growl, breaking the kiss to drag my mouth down the line of her throat. She tilts her head back, giving me access, and I bite down on the tender skin just above her collarbone. Not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to leave a mark, to remind her who she belongs to, even if she doesn't want to admit it.

She whimpers, her fingers digging into my good shoulder, and then she shrugs off her cardigan, pulling her t-shirt over her head. She's not wearing a bra, and Christ, she's beautiful. Even now, even after everything, she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

Her nipples are already hard, tight pink buds that make my mouth water. I reach up with my right hand and cup one breast, my thumb brushing over the sensitive peak. She gasps, arching into my touch, her eyes fluttering closed.

"Look at me," I demand, and her eyes snap open, locking onto mine. "I want you to look at me while I touch you. I want you to remember who's making you feel this way."

"I remember," she whispers, her voice breaking. "I never forgot, Cormac. Not for a second."

I don't know if I believe her. I don't know if I'll ever be able to trust a word that comes out of her mouth again. But right now, in this moment, I don't fucking care.

I pinch her nipple between my thumb and forefinger, rolling it roughly, and she cries out, her hips jerking forward against mine. The movement grinds her down onto my erection, and I groan, my head falling back against the rug.