Page 87 of Vengeance

"They live longer,” he said.

"Not if they keep refusing medical treatment." He didn't answer, and she started stitching his wound. He never flinched—not once. Most men cursed, and some squeezed the table. Others turned pale, but he simply watched her work with the same unreadable expression.

"You've done this before,” he said. He looked down at the neat line of stitches. "You have good hands."

The compliment caught her off guard. "So do you,” she said, not really paying attention to the words coming out of her mouth. His eyes lifted, and she nodded toward his calloused fingers. “I’m guessing that you’re a mechanic."

"No,” he breathed.

"Are you in construction?" she asked.

"No." He wasn’t really giving her much to go on.

"Are you in the military?" she asked.

He paused and shook his head. "No."

"Liar,” she challenged. That almost earned another smile—almost.

"You ask a lot of questions,” he said.

"I like knowing who I'm stitching back together."

"Why?" he asked.

"What if you're a serial killer?" she asked.

He looked genuinely thoughtful. "What would you do if I was?"

"I'd probably finish your stitches first." That finally did it. A small laugh escaped him—low and rough, like he hadn't used it in years.

"You have a nice laugh,” she said.

His expression changed immediately. "You don't know me."

"No." She tied off the final stitch. "But I'd like to." Silence settled between them as she reached for a bandage. "Now—" She smiled. "Tell me your name." He stared at her long enough that she figured he wouldn't answer.

"Vandal,” he breathed.

She smiled at him. "That's, um, unusual."

"It isn't the name I was born with,” he admitted.

"No?" she asked.

"No."

She started wrapping his arm. "So why Vandal?"

His eyes drifted toward the window. "Because I break everything I touch." The words weren't dramatic or self-pitying. They were simply accepting, as though he'd believed them for a very long time.

Dixie finished securing the bandage before meeting his eyes. "I don't believe that."

"You should,” he said, “because it’s the truth.”

"I've spent my career putting broken people back together." She smiled gently. "You don't strike me as someone who breaks things." He looked genuinely confused. "I think—” She handed him a clean T-shirt from the donation cabinet. "That you strike me as someone who's been broken." For just a heartbeat, the walls around him cracked. Pain flashed across his face so quickly most people would've missed it, but Dixie didn't. Before either of them could speak again, the clinic doors burst open, and RoadKill stormed inside.

"There you are!" His gaze landed on Vandal. "They're back." Every trace of warmth disappeared from Vandal's face, and his eyes became cold and dangerous. He stood in one smooth motion, without another word, and headed for the door.