Take (Deliver 5)

Pain would’ve been deep within her thigh now, stinging and smoldering, as if the bone had caught fire. She couldn’t veil the agony on her face, her lips stretched taut, and her forehead beading with perspiration.

But it was the concern in her eyes that moved him up her body. This woman, whom he’d hurt so ruthlessly, had the capacity in her heart to help him.

It made no sense, but he didn’t question it. Instead, he untied the knots on her wrists.

She tossed the rope and tank top from her arms and grimaced at her leg.

“I’m not finished.” He shifted back into position, resting her thigh across his lap.

“I know.” She lay back and gripped the arm he held across her midsection. “I’m not surrendering.”

“I know.”

She turned her gaze to the ceiling, and he returned to the design, cutting a braided pattern across her thigh.

“You had a flashback, didn’t you?” Her body quivered beneath the blade, her teeth sawing the hell out of her bottom lip.

“Yeah.” He reached up and tugged on her chin. “Stop that.”

“Does it happen often? The flashbacks?”

“Never.” He nudged her to her side and continued the lacerated braid to the back of her leg.

“Maybe this is helping?” She whimpered as he carved along a tender spot.

“Helping with what?”

“Your terrible personality.”

He glared at her through his lashes without lifting his head.

“Yeah, you’re right.” She glared back. “Your personality can’t be fixed. But maybe reliving your past is better than bottling it up. It should be cathartic.”

“This, us, you are cathartic.”

She fell silent after that but never removed her touch.

An hour passed before another flashback sneaked in.

She sensed it before he did, and her hand sank into his hair, fisting, pulling, until his gaze latched onto hers. “Stay with me.”

And so he did. He focused on the warmth of her fingers against his skin, on the way they trembled and flexed with her pain. He marked the rapid pace of her breaths and paused often to let her calm down, kissing her body during each break, his lips on her knee, her chest, and everywhere in between before starting again.

Blotting each drip of blood, he felt that flow of life roll through his veins like lava. Soon, he fell into a rhythm, a sensual slide of his hand, the scalpel seamlessly slicing her gorgeous flesh.

Dark, depraved pleasure circulated through his system. Indecent and drugging, sensations swarmed his nerve endings and heated his skin. Christ, he’d needed this.

He flipped her to her stomach to finish the back of her thigh. Numbing balm went into the incisions as he went along, and he forced water to keep her hydrated.

Dinner had long passed by the time he sat back and wiped off the blade. She’d stopped watching a while ago but not once had she withdrawn her touch.

He marked the heavy sag of her eyelids and the slackness of her mouth. “Where are you, Kate?”

“Floating on hatred.”

More like floating on endorphins, high on spikes of pain and stress, exhausted from hours of shivering, and probably lightheaded from the burn out of an adrenaline rush.

She looked ready to pass out, and he was hard as a rock. Cutting her had aroused him to the point of distraction. But this was Kate. Every time he touched her, his cock lengthened.

“Finished?” She inched her gaze to his.

“Yes.” He set aside the supplies. “Ready to see it?”

“It’s beautiful.” She closed her eyes.

“Bullshit.” He gripped her under the arms and lifted her to a sitting position. “I know you made up your mind about it, but you’re going to give me your honest opinion.”

“Fine.” She blew out a resigned sigh and looked down.

As her gaze flicked over the design, her sexy bowed lips separated. She leaned forward and twisted to see around the sides and underneath.

Her bright, glossy eyes and appreciative noises shifted things inside his chest.

“My God. It’s… I have no words.” She hovered a hand over the design, as if itching to touch it. “Why did you choose this? What does it mean?”

“The image will be clearer as it heals. It’s a rope, coiling around your thigh.”

“With a flower trapped under it?”

“Not trapped. It grows out from beneath it, blooming despite the confinement.” He ran a hand along her calf, cupping it to drag her closer. “There are twenty-two petals on the flower, each representing a year of your life.”

“Why?” She blinked, and a tear skipped down her cheek.

“You’re the miracle that grows in the smallest crack of sunlight. The bloom that never gives up.”

“Tiago.” A teary hiccup teetered to her lips, and she smothered it with the back of her hand.

“There’s something that thrives within all living things, a force that drives us to want to live more than anything else. You’re the essence of that. The purest example of resilience. No matter what direction you need to grow—out of the darkness of an attic or from beneath the constriction of braided rope—you do it fiercely, tenaciously, and without fail.” He clutched the back of her neck and brought her face to his. “There’s nothing more vibrant, more beautiful, or more treasured than the flower that blooms in hell.”