"Gonna help me out, Peaches? " Killion rasps, his crooked sneer salted with pain.
He's sitting shirtless on his bed, sunlight filtering through the curtains framing his broad back. The air reeks of smoke from the still-burning cigar sitting on the edge of the table. I don't know what's worse—the sight of the wound or the infuriating grin he's still managing to hold onto through it all.
I throw open the curtains. For no other reason than to banish his bat-like existence to the light of day. But seeing his wound clearly, well, it's not nearly as satisfying as I thought it would be.
His shoulders are broad, lined with tension, and his skin is a pale canvas interrupted by shadows of old scars, faint lines that tell stories I don't want to ask about.
