"You're making a mess," I huffed, getting closer to him and trying to ignore, well, all that. I had to remember I wasn't here willingly, but I also hated seeing anyone struggle. It was one of the few things Anna and I always disagreed on. Even if people fucked me over, even if they tore my heart out, I couldn't stop myself from helping them.
I got better at it over the years, but pain wasn't something I wanted to look at if I could help it.
"You don't say."
Stopping next to him, I took his hand in mine, ignoring the satisfaction blooming in my chest at knowing I’d done this to him.
"You don't have to look so smug, you know?"
"Who?" I looked up at him, still holding his hand. "Me? I would never."
"Yeah, you would. And I'm not sure if I like it… or if I should be afraid of you."
My thumb pressed against his wound, earning a painful grunt.
"Whoops," I chuckled. "I missed the spot."
His dark eyes narrowed at me, but he stayed silent as I looked back at his hand.
He was younger than me.
He was a mobster, mafia, whatever the fuck they called it.
He kidnapped me.
But my vajayjay apparently missed the memo, because the moment I touched him it was open season for Nicolas Moretti.
"Well, the bad news is that you'll live."
His breath brushed my cheek. I hadn’t noticed him leaning in.
"Sorry to disappoint."
"Yeah, uh, right."
"What's the good news?"
"What?" I looked up, only for our noses to touch. His lips were right there, his breath caressing my lips, and for a second I forgot what happened just hours ago.
"I said." He wrapped a lock of my loose hair around the finger of his free hand. "What's the good news?"
"The, uh, yeah," I cleared my throat. "The good news is that I took several first-aidclasses. I know how to clean and dress a wound."
"And you would do that for me, even though I kidnapped you?"
Well, he did have a point, but still, I wanted to sleep, and I wanted him gone. He was making my brain short-circuit, and I didn't like it. I liked my control, and I liked to think that my emotions didn't rule me, but that I ruled them.
"I don't like seeing others in pain," I mumbled, pulling back slightly. "Even if they deserve it."
His hand slipped from my hold as I turned toward the sink, rummaging through the first-aid kit. "You need a better first-aid kit." I looked back at him. "Considering your profession and all the otherthingiesyou might be doing."
"Thingies?" The hot fucker chuckled. "And whatthingiesdo you think I'm involved in?"
"Well." I pressed my hand to his chest, ignoring the scorching heat from his skin against mine, and started pushing him toward the bathtub. "If you're going around kidnapping people, you're bound to get hurt. Just look at tonight," I said, guiding him to sit down on the edge of the bathtub. "Adrenaline can do crazy things to people, and if we were in any other situation, I don't think I would've been able to go this deep with just the fork."
Realistically, the wound wasn’t all that deep, butI'd read somewhere that hands could bleed more than other parts of the body, and I was pretty sure that’s what’s been happening here.
He flexed his injured hand, wincing, but he didn't say a thing. Bringing the first aid kit back from the sink, I placed it right next to his hip, and lifted his hand back into mine. I didn't miss the fact that his hand alone was more than twice the size of mine, or that he could literally kill me right now. But something told me that he didn't really want to. At least not yet.