Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty Six
Nico
By the time she gets me back into the living room and helps me into the recliner, my whole body locks up like it’s deciding to quit on me all at once.
Every shift pulls. Every breath presses against bruises I can’t see without a mirror.
My ribs feel like someone took a bat to them—because someone did, in a way—and my shoulder is stiff enough that I can barely get comfortable.
The towel around my waist is the only thing between me and the furniture, and even that feels like too much effort to keep in place.
Erica hovers for half a second like she’s ready to catch me if I tip over.
“Do you have a first aid kit?” Erica asks.
I swallow, and it drags on my jaw, the joint tight and angry. Talking is worse. I try anyway.
My mouth barely opens. It feels like my teeth are glued together.
Her eyes snap to my face.
I give up and just lift my hand and point toward the stairs. The motion pulls through my shoulder and lights it up.
I point at myself and then indicate the towel on my waist.
“Your…” She furrows her brows. “Bathroom?”
I nod, relieved I won’t have to do more.
“Okay,” she says, and then she’s gone.
I lean my head back and close my eyes. One is swollen and hot, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. My cheek feels tight where the cut is, dried and split, and the air on it stings.
She’s never been to my bedroom, so hopefully she finds it quickly. There’s a first aid kit down here, too, but the one upstairs is better and has the really good pain pills.
I hear her footsteps as she comes running back down the stairs. I open my good eye and notice how she looks in the robe.
It’s huge on her. The sleeves swallow her hands, and the hem hits her mid-calf. The belt is tied tight at her waist, but it still hangs loose everywhere else, soft and oversized and completely wrong for her.
And completely right.
Even through my one good eye, she looks… adorable.
A ridiculous thought to be having right now.
Erica sets the kit on the coffee table with a clack and drops to her knees in front of it. She flips it open and starts sorting through it, hands steady now that she has a task.
Her gaze flicks up to me.
“You can’t talk,” she says, like she’s stating a fact to herself as much as to me. “Your jaw first. Do you know what it needs?”
I breathe out slowly through my nose.
Warmth, I try to say.
It comes out like a grunt.
Erica watches my face, searching.
“One more time,” she says gently.
“Warmth,” I grit out between my teeth.
It doesn’t sound right, but I think she understands this time.
“Like a compress?” she says, already digging through the kit. She pulls a package out and snaps it the way you’re supposed to, kneading it until it starts to heat.
She rises and walks to me, eyes flicking to the cut on my cheek.
“Not on the cut,” she murmurs. “We’ll do that next.”
Carefully, like I might break if she touches me wrong, she presses the warm compress to the hinge of my jaw, just in front of my ear. The heat seeps in immediately.
I breathe out again, and the sound is rough but relieved.
Erica’s hand stays there, with gentle pressure, using careful placement so she avoids the cut. Her eyes don’t leave my face, watching for any flinch, any sign she’s hurting me.
I know she wants to know what happened, but I’m unable to tell her right now. How do I tell her that someone swung a steel pipe at me? Even without my jaw locked. How can I see the look on her face when she finds out what happened?
And this is after I managed to block the worst of it.
It wasn’t just one guy, either.
The moment Vito disappeared down that aisle to find another jack, it was like they descended on me from three different directions. At least five guys working in tandem.
The way one of them moved wide to cut off my exit, while another came in tight.
The first strike was the pipe. I got an arm up and kept the worst of it away from my skull, but it still clipped my face hard enough to lock my jaw and split my cheek.
After that, it was all fists and boots, hits coming from angles I couldn’t block all at once.
I did what I had to do—taking hits I couldn’t avoid, but giving back worse.
I lost my gun with the first hit and couldn’t get to my backup.
Because of that, it took me longer than I wanted to get the upper hand, but I did. At some point, I almost lost it, but then I thought of them jumping Vito the same way, and it gave me the motivation I needed.
I managed to put three of them down before he got back with the stupid jack, realized what was happening, and jumped into the mess himself to take down the other two.
By the time it was all over, I didn’t give a fuck anymore. We somehow wheeled the last pallet out and loaded them all into the van, running on pure adrenaline and anger.
By the time Vito dropped me back here, he was guilt-ridden, but I was still irritated at the whole thing and really starting to feel the pain. Vito offered to come in and help me, but I shrugged it off, just wanting to shower and throw back some pain pills, pass out for the night.
In hindsight, it was stupid of me to turn him down, considering the fact that I can barely move.
Truth be told, I completely forgot Erica was even supposed to be here. So, it’s damn lucky that she was. Though I hate seeing the worried look on her face.
I open my good eye to see her watching me, a soft look on her face, as she holds the compress to my jaw.
The heat doesn’t fix it completely.
But it does something.
The tight, angry pressure in my jaw loosens a fraction, like a knot finally giving up. I let my tongue press against the back of my teeth and realize I’m not clenching down as hard anymore.
It’s a relief so sharp it makes my eyes sting.
I swallow once, slow, testing it. The joint still aches, still locked in that stubborn way, but I can separate my teeth a hair without pain spiking into my skull.
Erica’s gaze stays pinned to my face, reading every micro shift like she’s taking inventory. She doesn’t speak. She just keeps the compress pressed against me patiently.
I drag in a careful breath and manage, “Better,” around my teeth. It comes out rough, but at least it comes out.
“I want to take care of this cut, okay?” she says. “Then I’ll put the compress back on.”
I nod.
Erica sets the compress down on the coffee table, then reaches back into the kit and pulls out a small tube of antibiotic ointment and some gauze.
She squeezes a thin line of ointment onto a piece of gauze and dabs it on, gentle enough that it shouldn’t hurt and still somehow does.
Then she gently places an oversized bandage on it.
“There,” she says quietly. “It’s not deep enough for stitches, but it needs to stay clean. No touching.”
She leans over and very, very gently presses her lips to the bandage.
My throat works, and I feel it in my jaw. I take her hand and squeeze it.
“Okay,” she says, leaning back. “Now your eye.”
Erica lays the recliner back, and I tilt my head back on it. The skin around my swollen eye feels hot and tight, the swelling pulsing in its own rhythm.
Erica digs in the kit again, pulls out a cold pack this time, and pauses. “Tell me if it’s too much,” she says.
She cups the cold gently against the swollen lid, careful not to press hard, like she’s handling something fragile. Then she places the warm compress back on my jaw.
“Don’t move,” she says, then she moves onto the rest of my injuries.
My knuckles seem to be the worst of the rest of my injuries because she spends a good while on them—cleaning, dabbing ointment, then wrapping them.
I just breathe through the ache and let her do it, because fighting her right now would take more effort than I have. The rest of my injuries from the neck down are mostly bruises.
Even with her focused on my hands, I can feel her eyes tracking down my torso, cataloging every dark mark she can see, like she’s trying to decide what’s just bruising and what’s something worse and potentially emergent.
“It’s going to look worse tomorrow,” she murmurs, finishing the wrap and smoothing the last strip down.
“Lucky me,” I say, and it comes out like gravel. My whole body is hurting, and my headache has gone from throbbing to pounding. “Pills.”
Erica’s eyes flick down to the open kit; the unlabeled bottle of pills tucked inside of it.
She picks them up. “These?” she asks.
I nod once, jaw tight, and close my eyes again.
She opens the bottle, and I don’t hear any more sound. I open my good eye again to see her looking at the pills suspiciously.
There’s no way she knows what they are.
“Pills,” I repeat.
But when she looks up, I see that she does, in fact, know what they are. Her eyes narrow.
Then her gaze flicks up to mine.
“My dad had these,” she says quietly. “After surgery. For a few days. They took him off them as soon as they could.” She looks back down at the pills like they might bite. “Where did you get them?”
I hold her gaze.
“You really don’t want to know.”
“Nico—”
“Erica,” I say, and it comes out low.
I see the second she realizes. Obviously, it’s not something we talk about, but she’s well aware of who my family is.
And that getting an unlabeled bottle of pills wouldn’t be difficult.
Her fingers curl tighter around the bottle.
“Nico,” she says, and her voice goes stubborn in that way I’ve learned means she’s about to dig her heels in. “I don’t think you should take these.”
“Erica,” I rasp, and I can’t keep the edge out of it because my skull feels like it’s splitting. “Sweetheart. My head is pounding. My whole body is pounding.”
“These are highly addictive,” she says, eyes flashing as she holds the bottle up. Like she’s going to save me from myself.
Something in my chest loosens.
I manage a small smile, amused at her. “I’m not going to get addicted to pills, baby.”
“Don’t make fun of me,” she says stiffly.
“I’m not. I promise,” I say, still amused, even through my splitting headache. “Come here.”
I reach for her hand.
“Come where?” she says, walking closer.
“Come here,” I repeat and use her hand to pull her closer.
When she realizes I’m trying to pull her onto my lap, she widens her eyes.
“No.”
But I’ve already got a good grip on her.
“Nico, I don’t want to hurt you,” she says incredulously.
That makes me smile even more, making my jaw scream at me in pain.
“You won’t,” I rasp, finishing it through clenched teeth. “You’re sitting. Not tackling me.”
Her hands hover, uncertain, like she doesn’t know where to put them without touching something broken.
“I’m serious,” she says, still standing uncertainly, like she’s ready to spring away. “Your ribs are— your face is—”
“Trust me. I know,” I cut in. “Slowly, slowly.”
I shift my grip on her hand, guiding her the way I’d guide a skittish animal. One careful inch at a time until she’s fully settled across my legs.
She swallows, eyes still stormy.
“You’re being ridiculous,” she mutters.
“I’m in pain,” I say. “I want my woman close. What’s wrong with that?”
I tug the belt of the robe, loosening it.
She narrows her eyes.
“Nico,” she says in a warning tone.
“Very close,” I say and ease the robe apart.
“I’m not having sex with you right now,” she says. “Are you crazy?”
“Not sex, might kill me,” I murmur. “Just come closer.”
I pull her in gently until she’s tucked against me, her bare breasts against my chest.
I hold her close and sigh.
“Nico,” she whispers, and it’s not a warning now. It’s strained. “Your ribs.”
“I’m fine,” I lie automatically.
She pulls back an inch, eyes narrowing. “Don’t.”
“Sweetheart, my ribs hurt. My face hurts. My whole body hurts. That’s not going to stop, even if you’re across the room.”
“But this is making it worse,” she says, voice tight.
“Not possible,” I mumble. “Your boobs could never make anything worse.”
I see her fight a smile, then she eases back in against me carefully.
“Okay,” she says finally, barely audible. “But I hold onto the pills. You stop when I say.”
My mouth twitches. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And you have to eat something. Even if it’s just a little,” she says. “And you can’t even say no because you’re obsessed with feeding me.”
I want to argue, but she’s not wrong.
“Fine. A little,” I say.