Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty One
Adrian
The final round of the house takes longer than it usually would.
Not because there is anything wrong with the perimeter. There isn’t. My people are where they should be. The routes are covered. The cameras are clean. The west side has the weakest approach, but I have doubled my people there, and I can live with the formation until morning.
The rear tree line still bothers me. The side gate bothers me less now than it did yesterday. The cars in the drive have been repositioned so they are not blocking sight lines.
It is not perfect.
Nothing is.
But it is secure enough for the night.
The problem is me.
My side is killing me.
Every step pulls at the stitches. Every breath feels like it has to pass through heat before it reaches my lungs. By the time I finish speaking with Andrew near the front approach and make my way back through the house, sweat has gathered beneath my shirt and along the back of my neck.
I keep my face still.
I keep my walk even.
No one needs to see it.
Unfortunately, half this family has turned noticing things into a competitive sport.
Vito passes me in the hall near the stairs and gives me one long look.
“You look like shit.”
“Good night to you, too.”
“You going to fall over?”
“No.”
“You know, Teresa has given me permission to physically stop you if needed,” he says a bit smugly.
“Try and you might end up with a matching hole,” I say.
I pause and look at him.
He looks back.
For one second, we have the kind of silent conversation men have when neither of them is interested in pretending the other one is harmless.
Then Cristiano makes a sleepy sound from down the hall, and Vito’s attention shifts.
That is all it takes to end the moment.
“Go to bed,” he says.
“I was on my way.”
He gives me another assessing look, then moves on.
I continue toward my room, slower once I’m sure he is not watching.
The second I get inside and close the door, I let the mask drop.
I brace one hand against the wall and close my eyes while pain rolls through my side in a hot, vicious wave.
“Damn it,” I whisper.
The room is dim, one lamp low beside the bed. Someone has been in here while I was gone. Fresh water on the nightstand. Clean towels folded on the chair. The medication bottles lined up.
I give in and head to them. But I make sure to limit myself to a fraction of the recommended dose. I refuse to be impaired in case anything happens, but I'm also completely useless in this much pain.
The wound throbs under the bandage, deep and steady, but the dressing is dry. That is something.
I need a shower.
I do not want one.
Those are different things.
Blood, sweat, antiseptic, house air, too many people, too much tension. It all feels stuck to my skin. If I’m going to get any sleep, I need it off me.
The shower is a mistake.
I know that before I start.
I make it carefully anyway.
Getting the shirt off is the first problem. I unbutton it slowly and peel it away from my shoulders, jaw clenched against the pull in my side. The black T-shirt underneath is worse. It sticks slightly at my back, and lifting my arm sends a white-hot line across my ribs.
I stop halfway and breathe through it.
Shallow, even breaths.
Do not make it worse.
Do not pass out in Luca Conti’s guest room like an amateur.
Eventually, the shirt comes off.
I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror for a moment and find the same thing I always find after an injury.
A body that has done its job and paid for it.
Bruising has spread around the wound, dark and ugly beneath the edge of the dressing. The skin around it is angry. Old scars visible in the harsh bathroom light.
Shoulder. Ribs. Back.
Reminders from other days, other places, other moments when someone tried and failed to put me down.
I turn away.
The shower is careful, brief, and miserable.
I keep the water warm instead of hot. I angle my body so it does not hit the dressing directly. I wash one-handed, moving slowly, every bend and twist like I’m working around tripwire. Pain catches me a couple of times hard enough that I have to brace my forearm against the tile and wait it out.
By the time I shut the water off, I am sweating again.
Excellent.
Very productive.
I dry off slowly, wrap a towel around my waist, and step out of the bathroom with every intention of getting dressed, lying down, and pretending the last twenty minutes were not as difficult as they actually were.
Then there is a soft knock at the door.
I go still.
The hour is late enough that a knock means one of three things.
A security issue.
A medical issue.
Or trouble.
Before I can answer, the door opens.
Caterina steps inside.
For one second, I forget the pain.
She is wearing a robe.
Dark silk, tied at the waist, loose enough at the throat to show the delicate line of her collarbone.
Her hair is down, smooth over her shoulders, and her face is bare. No heels. No armor. No careful casino polish.
Just Caterina in the dim light of the moon through the window, one hand on the door, eyes already on me.
She closes the door softly and locks it behind her.
The sound is like a gunshot.
Every muscle in my body tightens.
“Caterina.”
Her name comes out lower than I intend. Huskier.
She turns back to me, and there is nothing uncertain in her face tonight.
That is the first warning.
The second is the way her gaze moves over me.
Not over the room. Not to the bed. Not to the window or the bandage or the gun on the nightstand.
Me.
Bare chest. Towel. Wet hair. Bruising. Scars. Wound.
Her eyes linger at my side, and something flickers there. Concern, yes. But not only concern.
Then her gaze lifts to mine, those sexy lips move into a pout.
“Why didn't you tell me you were showering? I would have helped.”
My mouth goes dry. Helped? In the shower?
Dear God...
My dick springs to life before I've even processed her words.
The towel suddenly feels flimsy.
“Caterina.”
She takes a step into the room. Her bare feet make no sound on the rug. “You’re hurt.”
The observation is simple, direct, and entirely true.
“I am aware," I say stiffly.
As stiff as my cock...
“Let me help.”
“No.”
That comes out too fast.
She does not flinch.
“You are pushing yourself too hard.”
Her eyes flick down on the word “hard.” It was quick, but I definitely saw it.
Obviously, this towel isn't doing a good job of hiding anything.
“That has been noted by several people today.”
“And yet you are still pushing.”
She takes a step deeper into the room.
"Adrian, you're supposed to be recovering."
“You should be in your room,” I say.
“I was. Most of the day, in fact," she says in that sultry voice.
“You should go back.”
That damn sexy pout deepens.
"No," she says simply, shocking me.
There is no anger in it. No sharpness. No defensive bite.
Just decision.
That is worse.
I am completely screwed.
I straighten as much as my side allows. “Unlock the door.”
“No.”
My jaw tightens. “Caterina.”
“Adrian,” she replies, my name soft and impossibly intimate in the quiet room.
She stops a few feet from me, close enough that I can smell the faint scent of soap from her skin. Close enough that I can see the pulse beating steadily and fast at the base of her throat.
She knows what she's doing.
“You should not be in here.”
“Probably not,” she agrees. “I know exactly what you’re going to say.”
“Good. Then save me the trouble.”
“No.” She toys with the belt of her robe. I find myself wishing she would loosen it. Just a fraction. “I thought last night was a mistake.”
Everything in me goes still.
I am careful not to react.
But she sees it anyway. Of course she does.
She keeps going.
“I thought I came in here because I was scared and humiliated and guilty and desperate to feel something that wasn’t terror.” Her voice stays quiet, but it does not shake. “I thought kissing you was some awful trauma response I needed to be ashamed of.”
“It's not something to be ashamed of, but it was a trauma response.”
“Partly,” she says. “Maybe. But not only.”
I say nothing.
She takes another step closer.
The robe shifts around her legs.
My body reacts before my brain can stop it.
Bad.
Very bad.
I keep my hands at my sides, towel hanging low at my hips, water cooling on my skin, every part of me suddenly too aware of the locked door, the bed behind me, the fact that I am not dressed, and the fact that she is looking at me like she has already decided how this ends.
And I'm not sure I want to change the ending
“You were right,” she says. “Fear does things to your head. Adrenaline does. Nearly dying does. But I spent all day thinking about it, and I know myself well enough to know the difference between panic and wanting something.”
My throat feels dry.
“Do you?”
Her eyes flash faintly. “Yes.”
“No,” I say, because if I let even half of what I want into my voice, we are done. “You don’t. Not tonight.”
Her chin lifts. “Do not tell me what I know.”
“I’m telling you what I know.”
“Which is?”
“That you almost died two nights ago. That your whole family is locked down under your father’s roof. That you are embarrassed about what happened last night and trying to take back control in the most dangerous way available.”
Her mouth tightens.
Good. Let her be angry.
Anger is safer than whatever is in her eyes right now.
“That is not what this is.”
“It is part of what this is.”
“And the rest?”
I do not answer fast enough.
That is a mistake.
She sees it.
Her gaze drops to my mouth.
I am painfully hard now. I guess even a gunshot isn't enough to keep me down.
I hate myself for it.
No, that is not true.
I hate that I cannot hide it.
Caterina sees it very well.
Her eyes darken.
“This is a bad idea,” I say quietly.
“I know,” she says back, just as quietly. Like we’re sharing a secret.
“We are in your father’s house,” I say, trying to be reasonable.
It doesn’t work.
“I know.”
“I am your protection,” I say. One last-ditch effort.
“I know.”