CHAPTER 2: SAMARITAN'S STITCH

BECCA'S POV 

The closet was a coffin of camphor, mothballs, starch, and the suffocating, metallic tang of Josh’s blood. I wiped my eyes, my heart still stinging from the kiss that had tasted like iron and stolen secrets.

I hissed, "You're just too shameless. Caressing and touching a stranger like you're sex-starved. I'll implore you to keep your hands to yourself; I'm not one of those girls whom you cheaply get into their pants."

I shoved him back firmly, yet he wasn't budging. My heart was beating; I was scared. Not in my wildest fantasies had I expected my first kiss was going to be like this—stolen by an arrogant brute.

"Create in me a clean heart, O God," I whispered, the Psalm a shield against the heat radiating from the man pinned against me.

Josh let out a short, dry laugh that ended in a wince. "A clean heart? Becca, men with guns are outside and I'm bleeding on your shoes. My heart is beating too fast for 'clean' right now."

I looked up, my gaze cutting through the dark. "You don't get it. You took something that wasn't yours. 'Keep thy heart with all diligence; for out of it are the issues of life.' That’s the book of Proverbs, Josh. My life has a foundation. You just used me like a prop in your drama."

"I used you to save us," he hissed, leaning closer until his hot breath stirred my hair. "Or did you prefer the alternative?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't. Not when his expensive trousers were brushing against my knees. "Can I see the wound?" I asked, my voice tight.

Josh chuckled bitterly. "Oh, so the 'pure sister' is finally going to touch the sinner? I thought you were too busy counting my sins."

"Galatians 6:2," I snapped, reaching for my sewing basket. "'Bear ye one another's burdens.' I am fulfilling the law, Josh. Not because I like you—you’re an arrogant brat—but because I won't let you die in my lab."

I moved in. The closet was so cramped I had to crawl between his legs to reach his arm. My fingers, steady from a thousand French seams, began to peel back his ruined silk sleeve.

The gash was jagged and deep. When I poured the antiseptic, Josh let out a roar of a word that made my blood boil.

"F—!" Josh spat, his body jerking in the dark.

My hand clamped over his mouth instantly. My eyes were twin fires. "Do not use that language around me, Joshua. Not in my space. If you swear again, I will leave you to bleed out and let you sort yourself out. Do you understand?"

Josh froze. He looked at me—really looked at me. He’d spent his life around wealthy girls and pampered heiresses who fainted at a broken nail, but this 'nerd' was staring down a fugitive with a Bible verse and a pair of fabric shears.

A stunned, dark fascination crossed his face. He watched my lips move in a silent prayer as I stitched the linen tape over his skin. I was fixing him like he was a torn garment, my touch clinical but disturbingly soft, evoking strong desires in his groin.

"You're actually good at this," he murmured, his voice losing its edge, turning into something low and velvety.

"I know how to fix things that are torn, Josh," I whispered, finally meeting his eyes. The air in the closet suddenly felt thinner, hotter. "I just don't know how to fix the mess you've brought to my door."

Josh reached out with his uninjured hand, his fingers grazing the edge of my head-band. "Maybe some things aren't meant to be fixed, Stranger. Maybe they’re meant to be ruined. I'd like to nibble on your pink lips and have you scream out my name in ecstasy. What do you think, pretty stranger?"

I looked at him horrified. I stammered, "What... what, in God's name is that foul play of words?" But in my core, there were unrealized emotions blooming. My core was dripping and my mouth salivated at the thought of his words.