That there was something not right about her entire family. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on but was there nonetheless.
It was a terrifying, isolating feeling. Pretty much the way she felt right now in fact.
Violet didn’t want to get too close to him, especially not while he was holding that gun and especially not with that horrible, emotionless look on his face. As if he felt nothing. As if he was dead inside.
It terrified her. And fascinated her for reasons she couldn’t even begin to fathom.
That’s really why you don’t want to get close.
She carefully pushed that thought away.
“Here.” Elijah handed her the forceps. “I don’t think the bullet’s that deep. Shouldn’t be too difficult to get out.”
Reluctantly she looked at the hole in his shoulder. It was crusty with congealed blood, a nasty-looking wound. “I-I’ve never done this before. I don’t know what to do.”
“Just stick the forceps in the wound, find the bullet, pull it out.”
Her jaw tightened. “If it’s so easy, why don’t you do it?”
“I could if I had to, but the angle’s wrong.”
She let out a breath. “It’ll … hurt.”
He smiled that empty, cold smile. “Does it look like I give a shit?”
“I just don’t want you to shoot me.”
The muzzle of the gun remained steady. “Don’t ram those things through my chest and I won’t have to.”
Jesus. “Alrighty then,” she muttered under her breath and glanced back down at the wound.
Her hands shook slightly as she lifted the forceps, biting her lip as she pushed the metal tips inside the torn flesh. He didn’t move. He didn’t even flinch.
She glanced up, unable to help herself, meeting his gaze.
There was no sign of pain on his face, no anguish twisting his features. His expression was blank, like a robot’s. Except … deep in his eyes something blazed. A fierce, ebony flame. Dense as a black hole, sucking in light and heat, and crushing them flat.
Rage. It was rage.
An icy wave of shock swept over her and she looked hurriedly away, trying to still her shaking hands. The ever-present fear twisted in her gut, tightened a noose around her throat.
This man wasn’t just dangerous. He was lethal. And she was his prisoner.
No, don’t think about it. Pretend. That’s what you’re best at.
Yeah, that was what she had to do. Pretend the way she always pretended with just about everyone she knew. That she was this rebellious, live-in-the-moment hippie chick. The one who made her mother so furious and yet had no effect at all on her father.
The girl who didn’t care what was happening as long as it felt good and she was having fun. A girl at ease with herself and her sexuality, who went wherever the wind took her.
A girl she wasn’t and never had been.
“That’s got to hurt,” she said as she probed the wound, feeling around for the bullet, her bracelets chiming with the movement.
“It’s sweet that you care, princess.” His voice was steady, betraying nothing, and the gun in his hand didn’t waver.
“‘Princess,’” she echoed. “I thought you were only supposed to call me Miss Fitzgerald.” At least, that’s what he’d always called her as her father’s bodyguard.
“Not anymore.”
She resisted the urge to look at him, not wanting to glance into that terrifying, fathomless black gaze again. “I’d prefer you called me—”
“Stop talking.”
Violet shut her mouth with a snap. Her palms were sweaty, her fingers trembling, and she couldn’t seem to slow the frightened beat of her heart.
Blood slid slowly down over his dark olive skin that looked like the legacy of some Mediterranean ancestor, obscuring the strange rose tattoo. This close she could smell the heavy, metallic scent of blood, and something else. A darker, earthier scent, like a forest covered in snow.
He didn’t speak, his breathing slow and even. The gun never wavering.
The silence in the room was so thick it felt like her ears were stopped with cotton balls.
And then just when she thought she was either going to burst into tears with fear or scream from the pressure, she felt the metal tips of the forceps close around something hard. Muttering a prayer in her head, she tugged and slowly drew the bullet out.
The only sound from Elijah was a short, barely audible intake of breath, and then he was taking the forceps from her suddenly nerveless fingers, dropping them with a clatter into the sink, and reaching for a bottle he’d gotten out earlier.
Putting the gun down, he opened the bottle and poured it directly onto the wound. Then he reached for a thick white pad as more blood began to slide down his chest.
Violet stood back, watching him, trying to still the tremble in her limbs. Now would be the time, of course, to see if she could grab that gun. Or maybe hit him over the head with something.
Yet she made no move. Even with a wound like that he’d probably be light-years faster than she was, not to mention about a thousand times stronger. And she really didn’t want to test whether or not he’d actually shoot her.
Better to wait for another opportunity or think of a plan that didn’t involve a physical fight.
“Press hard here,” Elijah ordered, pointing at the white pad with his chin.
Reluctantly, Violet came back to the vanity and did as she was told, pressing her hands against the pad to stop the bleeding. She didn’t really want to touch him; at least there was a whole lot of white wadding between her hand and his bare skin. Yet even so, she could feel the heat of his body burning through into her palm. Didn’t seem right for a man who seemed so goddamn cold to be so goddamn hot, and it made her uncomfortable.
She looked down to the vanity instead, where the gun rested.
“Don’t even think about it.”
“I’m n-not.”
“Bullshit.”
There was a surgical needle and thread next to some bandages. With a series of brisk economical movements, he bit off a length of thread then threaded the needle. “I should give those hands of yours something to do.”
Her fear spiked. “I won’t … I m-mean, I-I’m not—”
“Sewing,” he interrupted flatly. “Sex is the last thing I want from you, princess.”
She should have felt relieved, and she did, because God knew it was the last thing she wanted from him too. But there was also a little flash of something else. Something she didn’t want to examine closely.
You’re fucking crazy.
Yeah, she was. She might have been fascinated with him when he was her father’s bodyguard and she was completely safe from him. But all bets were off now.
Shifting her hands on the pad at his shoulder, she said, “I can’t sew to save my life.”
“Fine.” The word was uninflected. “You can stop pressing now.”
Lowering her hands, Violet stepped back.
He peeled the pad from his shoulder and seemingly without any pain, began to sew up the wound.
Perhaps this was a good opportunity? While he was distracted?
The gun was too close to him, and she probably couldn’t grab it without a fight. But … maybe she could hit him in the shoulder, where it hurt. Or push him. Or maybe even slip by him and run back into the lounge area of the apartment.