Catwoman: Soulstealer (DC Icons #3)(75)

He tucked away those facts. State—she’d likely grown up in America. He opened his mouth, then shut it. Admitting his own passion for science would only let her gather facts of her own on him. “That suit must have taken forever to make.”

“The base model belonged to the League.” Her needle glinted as it rose and fell. Luke shut out the strange sensation of thread passing through numbed skin. “I modified it to meet my specifications.”

“Like the cat ears and claws.”

Another rasp of laughter. “Like those.”

“Why the cat stuff?”

“Why the bat stuff?”

She had him there. “It was part of a larger theme.”

“Your…colleague’s theme, I assume.”

Luke avoided the urge to shrug, considering she currently had a needle in his skin. “Really, though: why the cat motif?”

Another few passes of the needle and she was done, tying off the stitches. Luke dared a look—and found a neat, precise line down his ribs. She leaned back, gathering up the needle and remaining thread in the plastic case they’d come in, along with the various needles and wipes. She handed them to him, and Luke blinked.

Right. They were covered in his blood. His DNA. And yet—there she was, handing it over. Dousing her own gloved hands in sanitizer once again, wiping away any trace of him from her.

“I had a stupid nickname at the League,” she said at last. “So I took back the symbol for myself. Decided I liked it. The other assassins had their own personal touches, so I made this”—a wave of the hand to encompass her claws, her eared helmet—“to reflect my own.”

“It’s impressive work.”

“Did you make your suit?”

The answer to that might lead to too many questions—and answers. “Parts of it.” Not a lie, not entirely. Some of the tech had been made by others. Like the robots in the lab.

Her head angled, and Luke followed the line of her vision to his side. Not on stitches she’d made, but the scars he realized were showing.

The tail end of the big scar that sliced down his chest, ending right near the bottom of his ribs.

He didn’t move as she traced a claw over it, leaving his skin prickling in her wake. He waited for the question about it, building the lie on his tongue: one of the underworld cronies had given it to him, not that piece of shrapnel that tore through his body. His very existence.

Instead, she asked, “Who hurt you tonight?”

The question was icy. The coldness not directed at him, but at whoever was behind the wound. As if she’d hunt him down and hurt him for it.

Luke was grateful for the mask covering his face as he blinked in surprise. He managed to say, “You should know. You freed him.”

She went still for a heartbeat. “You caught him.”

“I caught all of them.”

Silence.

She stood, stalking to the windows and shutting the curtains over the blinds. Cutting off the streetlight. Then she opened up a drawer, fished out what seemed to be two sweaters, and shoved them in the crack between the door and the floor. She still managed to navigate the way back to the bed, as if she’d mapped the entire room already.

In the pitch black, he heard the hiss and click of her helmet coming off. Heard the soft sigh of her hair being freed. Felt the slight weight of the helmet as she set it on the mattress behind them. He waited, heart thundering in his chest.

She said, voice low, “Take off your helmet.”

Luke couldn’t help but obey. His side barked in pain at the movement, but he lifted his hands to either side of his head and pulled it off. Cool air kissed his skin.

Both of them utterly blind here in the darkness.

“I should arrest you,” he managed to say.

“You should,” she agreed, and he could have sworn he heard her smile. “But you won’t.”

“We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“We’re not doing anything yet.”

It was the wry humor in her voice that had him facing her fully. Had him lifting a hand to where he sensed her face would be and tracing her features. Soft, warm skin greeted him. And her hair, tied back from her face…Straight. Silken—thick.

Luke ran a hand from her hair down the column of her neck. Could have sworn her breathing became uneven. He brushed a finger over the line where her skin met her suit.

“Why did you bother saving me tonight?”

Metal and leather hissed as she removed her gloves. Slender hands found his hand resting on his thigh. Turned his hand over and brushed over the calluses on his palm. “Because we’re two sides of the same coin.”

“Really? You and I have a lot in common?” He couldn’t stop tracing the line of her neck. His thumb found the hollow of her collarbone and settled, letting her pounding pulse hammer into his skin. “You’re trying to destabilize my city. I’m trying to save it.”

Through the barrier of his suit, he could barely feel her hands making a path up his leg, up his stomach, his chest. “Is there that much worth saving?”

“You said there are good people here, that I should protect them.”

“What about the corruption, the broken systems? Are they worth saving?”

“They are a part of this city—and people like that always benefit from chaos.”