Chapter 7 Nicolò #2
When she wipes her hand on her bare thigh, it leaves a deep red stain on her skin. My gaze narrows on the blood she just wiped on herself, and before I can think, I’m standing over her.
She looks up at me in surprise, then her eyes thin with annoyance, but she doesn’t stop me from taking hold of her hand and inspecting it. There’s a deep gash right in the center.
“Thorns,” she says with a trace of impatience.
“Why are you doing the gardener’s work?” I frown.
She shrugs her other shoulder. “He has too many other jobs to do in the garden, he says.”
I vaguely recall Tony moaning about how the guy has raised his prices but doesn’t seem to be doing the work. When I asked why he puts up with it, his response was he doesn’t have time right now to find a replacement.
Recalling this now sends a slither of displeasure through me.
With her hand still in mine, I look over her shoulder toward the laundry room at the back of the house. “We need to clean this.”
“I can do it.”
She tries to yank her hand away but I grip it tightly. “Come with me.”
Her footsteps skip a little clumsily behind my long strides as I walk her to the nearest washbasin. I wrap my hand around her wrist and hold it firmly.
“This will probably sting a little.”
Turning on the faucet, I hold the bleeding wound beneath the cold running water.
She hisses a breath between her teeth and holds it there, using her other hand to grip the side of the washbasin.
Her eyes are jammed closed but she doesn’t try to pull her hand away.
As I continue to hold it there beneath the water, I look around for any medical supplies.
My gaze lands on a small basket tucked under a shelf, filled with dressings and various creams.
Once the water runs clear, I dab her palm dry with a clean towel.
I apply a little antiseptic cream then wrap a dressing around her hand.
The side of my face heats and when I glance to my left, her eyes are back on me.
Only this time, they’re not filled with annoyance.
She looks… curious. Like she’s trying to figure out what planet I came from. I’m not sure I even know myself.
“There.” I roll my lips inwards and let her hand fall to her side. She inspects it as though I might have removed the original and replaced it with a robotic alternative. “Try not to get into any more fights with vines.” It’s not an apology exactly, but I’m being nice. I think.
She peers up at me and offers a weak smile. When she opens her mouth to speak, the sound of her aunt’s voice fills the entire back of the house.
“Bambi! Time to go!”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s Lina,” she mutters under her breath.
In this moment I feel a twinge of pity. The girl just wants to grow up and be treated like an adult, yet no one in her family seems ready to accept that.
She lifts her gaze again and this time I see a small glimmer of gratitude. I don’t deserve it though. I haven’t exactly been a great stepbrother so far. I mean, sure, I’ve been physically present to protect her, but I haven’t exactly been nice.
I jerk my head toward the door. “Have fun.”
She hitches a brow, and that’s when I realize how eye-catching the outline of her face is.
It’s kind of heart-shaped, with a delicately pointed chin, wide and flawless cheekbones and full brows that rise into perfect arches.
She doesn’t appear to wear make-up and she really doesn’t need to.
Her lashes are long and sweeping, and unusually thick.
I don’t make a habit of staring at girls’ eyelashes but I’m certain I haven’t seen lashes like hers before.
“Okay,” she says, tentatively. “Thanks for… this.”
She waves her hand awkwardly. I think I laid the bandage on too thick, but at least it’s secure. I slide my hands into my pockets and watch her leave. Then I watch the door for a few moments longer.
I should have showered and been on my way to Augie’s by now, but I feel like I need some air.
I wander out into the garden, my gaze catching on the old treehouse at the far end. Then the faint sound of a man’s voice pulls my attention to the right.
Rounding the corner I see the gardener. He’s sitting on the ground, his back toward me, talking on his phone as opposed to digging up the weeds he’s being paid to. I make my way to him, my YSL shoes hardly making a sound on the paved path.
I take one look at his clean fingers before I lower my foot and crush them beneath my shoe.
Letting out a high pitched cry, he drops his phone and tries to swing round to face me, but I’m breaking approximately twenty-seven bones and that can make it hard for a man to maneuver.
His eyes tilt up to me and he realizes who I am.
Managing to lift his right arm in surrender, he starts to beg through gasped breaths. “Please… Please, whatever I’ve done, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Please—my hand…”
I press my weight forward onto his wrist, hearing a satisfying crack as I bring my face toward his. Then I furnish him with two words he won’t forget in a hurry. “You’re fired.”