"Taking my clothes off?" Cyan's voice was far too bright for a guy who had almost been shot two hours ago. "I'm drenched in dirt, Nick. Unless you want me bathing in my shoes?"
"You should be more aware," I said, staring hard at a framed oil painting on the wall, my pulse jumping into my throat.
"In my own house?" I heard the soft rustle of his shirt coming off over his head. "Don't be so stiff. It's just skin."
I scoffed, turning back to tell him off properly, but the words died right in my mouth.
He was standing in just his underwear, reaching for a towel on the bench. The light in the room hit his bare skin directly, and my breath caught.
Long, jagged silver lines stretched across his ribs and trailed down his stomach, disappearing past the band of his briefs onto his upper thighs.
They weren't small scratches. They were deep, wide slash marks, pale and raised against his skin.
