He stabs his finger at an intercom and barks, “Rosa!”
He strips off his jacket and then his shirt, elbowing me away when I try to help. A woman appears a minute later, steel-colored hair mussed from sleep, robe hastily belted. When she sees the blood, her expression doesn’t change. She just comes over to inspect the wound.
“I’ll call Darla,” she says.
“No.”
She simply nods at Damiano’s refusal and disappears, returning with a medical kit that looks…comprehensive. This is not the first time she’s dealt with something like this.
I sit in stunned silence, watching this “Rosa” inspect the cut. The wound is deep but clean—three inches across his bicep. If it had been higher, across his throat, or lower, slicing open his belly…
Rosa threads a surgical needle and I wince in anticipation. But Damiano doesn’t even flinch as she begins sewing him up. He just watchesmewith those dark eyes.
I have no idea what he’s thinking.
When Rosa finishes, she puts a large patch over it and winds a bandage around his sizeable bicep. Then she steps back andsurveys her handiwork with satisfaction. “We’ll clean it twice daily. No heavy lifting for a week.”
“My ink’ll be all messed up with a scar,” he grumbles.
“You shouldn’t be disrespecting your body with tattoos in the first place.” She pats his uninjured shoulder like he’s a wayward nephew, then fixes me with a stern look, taking in my blood-stiffening shirt front. “You need to shower. Come.”
It’s not a suggestion.
And weirdly, Damiano just troops behind as I follow Rosa, who marches out of the kitchen, beckoning me to hurry. When we reach the stairs, my legs feel unsteady, and Damiano puts his good arm around me again, practically lifting me up the steps. I want to tell him not to, remind him thathe’sthe one who’s injured, but I don’t. I need his steady arm too much.
Someone came at me tonight.
It’s still happening. Someone still wants me dead.
We emerge eventually on the fifth floor, Damiano not even slightly out of breath despite half-carrying me the whole way, and then we go down another hallway. In front of a particular door, Rosa gives Damiano one last meaningful glare before disappearing back down the corridor.
We’re alone. He pushes open the door, reaches in to snap on the light, and gives me an ironic wave in.
Oh, fuck. This ishisroom. His bedroom.
Dark wood. Thick carpet. A bed so big I could get lost in it, and floor-to-ceiling windows that are currently covered with steelshutters. Damiano sits on the side of the bed, and for the first time tonight, he looks tired. Wrecked, actually.
More human than I’ve ever seen him.
“Go shower,” he says without looking at me. “You’re covered in my blood.”
I am. It’s sticky on my hands, soaked into my shirt, probably in my hair. The metallic scent of it wafts with me into the attached bathroom, where I strip out of my formal wear and step under the water.
But even as the red swirls down the drain, I can’t wash away the memory. The way he moved without hesitation. The way he put his body between danger and mine like it was instinct.
Like I wasworthprotecting.
When I emerge with one of his soft, fluffy towels wrapped around my waist, he’s settled on the bed, propped against pillows in nothing but black briefs, the white bandage on his arm stark against his inked skin. Brooding and beautiful and bleeding for me.
I stand there dripping. Staring.
“What are you looking at?” he growls.
“The man who saved my life.”
He scoffs. “I told you no one would hurt you under my watch. I meant it.”
“I know. I know that now.”