Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

It’s not gruesome. It’s not even particularly long or large. It
is, however, seeping blood, which he doesn’t even seem to be
aware of.
He says, “See? I told you. It’s hardly a scratch.”
“How many times have you been shot?”
He thinks for a moment. “Six? Ten? I don’t remember. I
always get a tattoo to cover the scar.”
I examine his chest, a glorious canvas of ink overlying an
even more glorious network of muscle. The man is walking
art.
“Like this one.”
I touch a grinning skull on his left pec, above his heart.
There’s a small knot of white scar tissue in the middle of one
of the skull’s black eyes. It gives the appearance of a beady
little eyeball, peering out with evil intent.
Glancing down at it, Kage says, “It’s a good thing you
weren’t around for that. You definitely would’ve passed out.”
“But the scar is so small. Not even the size of a dime.”
“That’s the entry wound. The exit wound in my back was
the size of this.”
He looks up and holds up his fist. It’s as big as a grapefruit.
I swallow, feeling my stomach turn.
“How did you survive?”
“I almost didn’t.” He shrugs. “But I did.”
He’s so nonchalant about it, like dying is no big deal. Or
maybe it’s his own life he thinks is no big deal.
Maybe he doesn’t think it’s worth much.
I flatten my palms over his broad chest and look into his
eyes. “I’m glad you did,” I say softly. “I don’t think I’d have
ever been happy again if I hadn’t met you.”
Though he tries not to show it, I see how much my words
affect him. His eyes flash. He swallows, his Adam’s apple
bobbing.