Chapter 19
Chapter nineteen
Isabella
It’s been five days since I got shot. Five days holed up in this room like a prisoner, because my dearest husband has forbidden me from leaving. The only reason I’m staying put is that I don’t want the staff to get in trouble.
Speaking of the devil, the door opens, and Dominic walks in, looking every bit the intimidating bastard he is.
“Look who decided to grace me with his presence,” I mutter, lowering the book I was reading as I shoot him a glare. “Can’t find it in your busy schedule to check up on your injured wife?” The word wife drags out of my mouth like something sour.
“How’s your shoulder?” Of course, he ignores everything else I’ve said, focusing only on the wound that’s already healing faster than I want to admit.
“It hurts terribly.” My voice comes out flat, and I lift my chin, daring him to call me out.
His gaze brushes over my face before it moves to my shoulder. “You’re lying.”
The words slip from him with certainty, and it prickles under my skin. Dominic hasn’t spent a single night here after the night I got shot. He barely comes around, and the few times he does, it’s just to ask about the wound.
It should bother me, the fact that he’s only throwing scraps of care my way, but my stupid heart aches for it. It’s pathetic, and I blame it on some unhealed part of my childhood, rearing its ugly head, and making me enjoy his attention, even when it’s the bare minimum.
Pushing back against the pillows, I fold my arms. “Why bother asking if you already know the answer?”
He doesn’t respond.
I roll my eyes. “Well, since you’re asking, I’m miserable. Sharon hovers over me like I’m some china doll, and I’m not allowed to leave this cage you call a bedroom. Does that answer satisfy you, husband?”
Something flashes in his eyes, but his tone stays even. “You’ve been restless.”
“No, shit! I hadn’t noticed,” I shoot back.
“Do you actually care about how I am?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
..and for a heartbeat I’m terrified of what he might say.
What if he doesn’t care? What if he looks at me with that flat expression.
..the one that gives nothing away, and I’m left with the answer I’ve been dreading all along?
So I push myself upright, ignoring the sting in my shoulder, and change direction. “The men that attacked… have you found them?”
His gaze hardens. “Don’t worry about that.”
Fury surges hot in my chest, and I swing my legs over the bed, biting back a wince from my movement. “Don’t tell me not to worry. I got shot, Dominic. I deserve to know what’s being done!”
“It’s being handled,” he deadpans, but I can see the restraint in his eyes as he steps closer to me.
That’s all he says, and it makes me feel small and powerless…like my life is just another problem being tossed on his table.
“So what am I supposed to do? Stay here like a trapped bird? Pretend nothing happened while you keep me in the dark?”
His jaw flexes. “Exactly. Stay here and heal. That’s your job.”
“My job?” A laugh bursts out of me, sharp and humorless. “My job was to take a bullet, apparently, while you swoop in afterward with your half-answers.”
“Don’t,” he growls, the vein in his neck bulging.
“Don’t what? What else am I supposed to think when my own husband won’t tell me what’s happening? You vanish for days, and when you show up, it’s just to check my wound like I’m one of your fucking assets that needs maintenance.”
He takes another step closer, his presence swallowing the space. “No, you’re my fucking wife and I’d do whatever it takes to keep you safe.”
“Well fuck you and your safety,” I hiss.
His nostrils flare, hands dragging through his hair thickly. “Watch your damn mouth.”
Somehow, we’re in each other’s space, breathing the same air. I’m about to snap again when I feel his fingers on my chin, tilting my face up to his.
“In case you didn’t catch it last time, I’ll repeat myself. You belong to me, Bella,” he says, softer this time. “And nobody hurts what’s mine and walks away freely.”
It feels more like a promise than a mere statement, but just like I said.
.. He offers me scraps of attention my body can’t refuse.
My gaze trails over him, noticing the dark hollows in his eyes and how stiff his shoulders are.
He looks like he hasn’t slept properly in days.
And it’s obvious he’s been carrying more than he lets me see.
Maybe he’s been trying all along, just…not in the way I want.
What do I even want?
His thumb grazes along my jaw, gentle in a dangerous way, because my chest tightens at the contact. My gaze drops to his mouth, and I instinctively lick my lips, desperate to do something with the heat pooling in my stomach.
I notice a crease forming between his eyebrows. “Don’t do that.” It lands as a reprimand and a plea.
Blinking up at him, feigning innocence even as my pulse kicks, I ask, “Do what?”
His eyes narrow, dropping to my mouth before climbing back up again. “You know what,” he grinds out, every word vibrating with restraint. “You should get some rest.” He attempts to pull away, but my hand reflexively closes around his wrist.
“I’m tired of resting.”
Before he can say anything else, my lips press against his. For a second, he freezes. Then he kisses me back, a hand moving to the back of my neck, angling me closer as he deepens the kiss.
Breathing against his lips, I whisper his name softly.
He answers with a low groan, pulling me flush against him. His lips trail down my neck, biting gently, and I arch into him, rubbing myself against his hard length.
“Fuck! What you do to me…Princess.”
A sudden wave of nausea hits me. My hand flies up to my mouth, stifling a gasp. His hand goes still, eyes searching mine. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I lie, forcing a faint smile.
“Probably didn’t sleep well.” The excuse sounds weak, even to my own ears.
The truth is, for the past few days, I’ve been feeling nauseous.
Sometimes, my vision blurs and it takes me a while to get my shit under control.
..I’ve been ignoring it, convinced it’s because of the blood loss, tiredness, and pain.
“I’ll be fine. The doctor’s coming today to take the stitches out, right? No big deal.”
“No big deal,” he repeats flatly.
And unfortunately, the moment has been officially ruined, thanks to my nausea.
Doctor Jeremy arrives not long after Dominic leaves. Sharon follows him in, shutting the door softly behind them.
“Mrs. Moretti,” he greets, setting his case on the nightstand and sorting out the instruments he needs into a neat row.
“I’ve told you...Please call me Isabella,” I say gently, adjusting myself to a sitting position.
He offers a smile that softens the hard lines of his face, his grey beard twitching with it. “Force of habit,” he says gently, slipping on a pair of gloves. “Are you comfortable?” he adds, looking at me over the rim of his glasses.
“As comfortable as anyone with thread poking out of their skin can be,” I joke, trying not to look at the black sutures under the gauze.
He chuckles under his breath, adjusting the small tray of instruments he’s laid out. “You know…you remind me of Mr. Moretti’s mother.”
My brows lift. “Dominic’s mother?” The only glimpse I’ve ever had of his past and it comes from someone else’s mouth, casually dropped while I’m having my stitches removed.
He’s never told me a single word about her. Well, it’s not exactly like we have some sort of relationship where he’d willingly spill the contents of his life.
The sudden realization that I know nothing beyond what many others already know hits me like a punch to the stomach.
“She had the same fire.” He meets my eyes, then reaches for a small spray bottle. “I can numb the area if you’d like,” he says. “Most superficial stitches come out fine without a local. It’s a quick pinch. But if you’re anxious or the spot’s tender, we’ll use a topical gel for a few minutes.”
“Topical’s fine,” I say. Anything to keep my head clear.
He applies the gel to the area. It works quickly, dulling the sting as he swabs the skin with antiseptic and lifts the first suture with the forceps.
“Let me know if it hurts.” He pulls it out in one clean motion.
The first tug stings, but it’s more irritation than pain.
He places the dark thread neatly on a tray, then moves to the next.
“You’ve healed well,” he says, inspecting the wound. “No signs of infection. Some tenderness is normal, but overall, it looks good.” He cleans the area again with antiseptic before pressing sterile strips across the line. “Mr. Moretti did a perfect job.”
I nod, biting back a sigh of relief. That part, at least, is behind me.
“Is there anything else you need? I was informed you weren’t feeling too good earlier.”
“No. I’m fine. I just… didn’t sleep well last night.”
He studies me for a few seconds before nodding and gathering his stuff into his case. “You need proper rest to heal well,” he reminds me. “I believe that will be all then. Take care of yourself, Mrs. Moretti.”
Rolling my eyes, I correct him again. “Just Isabella…”
He gives a polite nod and walks to the door, with Sharon following behind.
When the door closes, and I’m finally alone, I let out a long sigh.
There’s a pressure in my temples that just started this morning…
despite the painkillers I took, and my stomach has been churning uncomfortably since I had breakfast, but I chalk it up to the feeling of stress from everything lately.
All I need is a change of scenery, instead of being locked in here like some Disney princess, but the thought of leaving this house scares me.
What if the men who attacked are still waiting to finish the job?
Who sent them, and why? Should I tell my father about it?
Would he even care that there was an attempt on my life?
He doesn’t have the kind of connections Dominic has, but maybe… maybe he can help.
The discomfort in my stomach worsens suddenly...and the urge to puke overwhelms me. My hand flies to my mouth as I stumble to the bathroom.
Kneeling against the toilet, I grip the lid hard…retching until my stomach feels empty. My body shivers violently, and for a long moment, I just stay there trembling.
Shaky feet carry me to the sink, and my eyes lift to the mirror.
I look too pale…with shadows under my eyes that no amount of rest has erased.
Should I have told the doctor? Should I go back and ask?
My chest tightens…panic crawling up my throat…
What if something is wrong? What if it’s… something else?
And then it hits me…like a punch to the gut.
I haven’t had my period in almost a month.
I’ve been too caught up with the events of the past few days and I didn’t notice.
Like a caged animal, I pace the length of the bathroom, my eyes snagging on my reflection…
and jerking away until I can’t bear the sight of myself anymore.
Thinking back to all the times Dominic and I have had sex, I realize we haven’t exactly been careful. In fact, we haven’t been careful at all…and the only time he ever used protection was at the nightclub.
What if I’m…? The word stalls in my throat.
Absolutely not! I’m not ready. I’ve never been ready. My own childhood taught me nothing about love except how badly it hurts when it’s withheld. That kind of damage doesn’t vanish because you accidentally fall pregnant.
And clearly, Dominic isn’t built for fatherhood either.
A baby changes everything. Dominic is…fuck…I don’t even know where I stand with him, or if I stand anywhere at all.
Yet, a nagging voice in my head whispers, What if…
? The rational part of my brain points out the obvious…
the nausea, headache, dizziness, and, to top it all off, my missed period, while the irrational part hopes my period is just late, or that I bled too much from the gun wound and didn’t have any more blood to lose. As if that were even a thing.
What the fuck am I going to do?
I sure as hell can’t tell Dominic anything. If I tell him, I could ruin what we barely even have right now…Or not, a voice in my head whispers.
But I’m not ready to take that risk…So instead, I rinse my face with cold water and let the shock and panic settle into a dull ache in my stomach, brushing the suspicion aside. I refuse to let myself dwell on it, especially with no proof…and in the end, I might just be worrying for nothing.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll think about it. Today, I just need to survive. Today, I’ll pretend I’m fine. I’ll act like nothing has changed.
Even though deep down, I feel like it already has.