Chapter 41
Forty-One
I watch her sleep.
She’s curled up beneath the blankets, her face relaxed for the first time since I found her in that godforsaken warehouse. The bruises are already darkening, spreading across her cheek and jaw like shadows of the hell she’s just endured. My stomach twists at the sight. I failed her. I should have gotten to her sooner.
The doctor’s words replay in my head. Physically, yes. Emotionally? That depends.
I don’t give a fuck about emotional wounds. I’ll fix whatever needs fixing. I’ll tear apart the world to make her feel safe again.
But for now, I can only watch over her. Protect her in the only way I can at this moment.
I sit in the chair beside the bed, keeping a careful hold of her hand. My thumb moves in slow, rhythmic strokes over her bruised knuckles. She needs sleep—needs rest—but every time her breath hitches or her body tenses, I prepare myself to wake her .
And then it happens.
A sharp inhale. A whimper. Her fingers twitch against mine, curling as though trying to find something, or someone, to hold on to.
Then she starts trembling.
My jaw tightens as I watch her face twist in pain. Whatever she’s seeing, whatever memory is playing behind her closed eyelids, it has her gasping for air. A broken sob leaves her lips, and I can’t fucking take it anymore.
“Gia,” I murmur, leaning closer, careful not to touch her too suddenly. “Wake up, amore mio . It’s just a dream.”
She jolts awake with a gasp, wild eyes darting around the dimly lit room before locking onto mine. For a moment, she looks lost. Then her breath shudders out of her, and she clutches my wrist in a bruising grip, pulling me closer.
“Vitali,” she breathes, her voice small, raw.
“I’m here,” I say, cupping the side of her face that isn’t as bruised. “You’re safe.”
Her lower lip trembles, and then she presses her face against my chest, clinging to me as if I might disappear. I wrap my arms around her, holding her tight, feeling the erratic beat of her heart slowly begin to settle.
“I dreamed I was still there,” she whispers against my shirt. “That you didn’t find me in time.”
“But I did,” I remind her, stroking her hair. “And I always will.”
She exhales shakily, her fingers curling into my shirt. I don’t know how long we stay like this, her in my arms, me grounding her in every way I know how.
But I do know one thing.
I’m never letting her go.
Her fingers clutch at my shirt, her breath still uneven from the nightmare. I hold her tighter, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, breathing her in despite the lingering scent of sweat and blood. She’s here. She’s safe. But my chest still burns with the rage I haven’t yet unleashed.
She shifts slightly against me, her voice small when she speaks. “I need a bath.”
I pull back just enough to see her face. Her eyes are rimmed with exhaustion, but there’s something else there. Shame. My gut clenches. I know why.
“You don’t have to ask, piccola cerva .” I press my lips to her forehead before standing. “I’ll take care of it.”
She nods but doesn’t move right away. Her body is still sore, still recovering from what that bastard put her through. I don’t wait for her to struggle. Instead, I carefully slide my arms beneath her, lifting her from the bed. She makes a small noise of protest, but I silence it with a look.
“Let me take care of you.”
Her lips part like she wants to argue, but then she exhales and rests her head against my shoulder.
I carry her into the en-suite bathroom, flipping on the light and setting her down on the closed toilet lid. She watches me as I turn the knobs, filling the tub with warm water. I grab a bottle of lavender-scented bath oil and pour a small amount under the running stream, watching as the water turns silky and fragrant.
When I glance back at her, she’s biting her lip, hesitation flickering in her eyes.
“I can do it myself,” she says softly.
I kneel in front of her, reaching for the hem of her oversized shirt. The one I put her in after the doctor finished tending to her injuries. “You could,” I agree. “But you don’t have to.”
Her throat works as she swallows, and after a moment, she lifts her arms slightly. It’s all the permission I need.
Gently, I peel the fabric away from her, my jaw clenching at the bruises painting her skin. My rage flares again, but I shove it down. She doesn’t need that right now. She needs me . Peeling back the wrap on her ribs, I carefully set it to the side, so it doesn’t get wet.
I slide her underwear down her legs, pressing a kiss to the inside of her knee before lifting her into my arms again. Slowly, I lower her into the warm water. She hisses as the heat touches her skin but then exhales, her body relaxing against the porcelain.
I roll up my sleeves and reach for a soft washcloth. Dipping it into the water, I wring it out and start at her shoulders, running the warm fabric over her delicate skin. She shivers, but not from the cold.
Her eyes meet mine, and I see the vulnerability there.
“You don’t have to do this,” she whispers.
I cup her cheek, my thumb stroking the side of her face that isn’t bruised. “Yes, I do.”
She blinks, and for a moment, I think she might cry. But she doesn’t. Instead, she leans into my touch, letting me care for her the way she deserves.
I continue bathing her, running the cloth over every inch of her with slow, reverent strokes. When I reach for the shampoo, she closes her eyes, sighing as I work it through her hair, massaging her scalp with careful fingers.
By the time I rinse her clean, she looks lighter. Still exhausted, still hurting, but there’s a softness to her expression that wasn’t there before.
I reach for a towel, wrapping it around her before lifting her again. She doesn’t protest this time. Instead, she curls into me, letting me carry her back to bed .
As I tuck her in, she reaches for me. “Stay?”
“Always,” I murmur, sliding in beside her and pulling her into my arms.
She exhales, pressing her face against my chest, and I hold her close, vowing to never let her go.
Gia is asleep again by the time the doctor arrives, curled against me, her breath soft and even. But I don’t miss the way her fingers still clutch at my shirt, like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go.
The knock at the door is quiet, almost hesitant. I shift carefully, easing Gia’s grip without waking her, and slip out of bed. My body protests, the exhaustion clawing at me after everything that happened, but she comes first.
Always.
I open the door to find Dr. Moretti standing there, his expression calm but observant as he takes in my disheveled appearance. The man had been tending to my family for years before my father’s death. He’s seen a lot, but I can tell even he wasn’t prepared for what he walked into last night when he first patched Gia up.
“How is she?” he asks, stepping inside.
“She slept for a while, but she woke up in pain.” I lead him toward the bed. “I helped her bathe and wrapped her ribs again after.”
Dr. Moretti nods approvingly, setting his bag down beside the bed. Gia stirs slightly at the movement, her brow furrowing, but she doesn’t wake. I kneel beside her, running a soothing hand down her arm.
“ Bambolina ,” I murmur, brushing a kiss against her temple. “The doctor is here to check on you. ”
Her eyelashes flutter, and after a moment, she peeks up at me before shifting her gaze to Moretti. There’s no fear in her expression, but there’s wariness—something cold and distant that wasn’t there before all of this.
Moretti is careful as he sits on the edge of the bed, his movements slow, measured. “How are you feeling, Gia?”
“Like I got run over by a truck,” she mumbles, attempting to push herself up. I’m already there, sliding an arm behind her back, helping her sit without putting too much strain on her ribs. She leans into me, sighing softly, and I press another kiss to her hair.
Moretti hums, opening his bag and pulling out a stethoscope. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”
She shakes her head. “Just sore. And my face feels like it’s the size of a watermelon.”
Moretti chuckles, though his eyes darken slightly as he peels back the blanket and begins his examination. He unwraps the bandages around her ribs first, his fingers gentle as he checks for swelling. I watch Gia closely, my jaw clenching every time she flinches.
“The bruising is worse, but that’s to be expected,” Moretti murmurs, re-wrapping her ribs with precise efficiency. “Try not to take deep breaths or twist too much. The rib isn’t fully broken, but it’s fractured. Too much strain and it could snap completely.”
Gia nods, but I can see the frustration in her eyes. She hates being weak. Hates feeling helpless.
Moretti moves on, checking the cut on her forehead, then the swelling along her cheek. “The swelling should start going down in the next day or two. I’ll leave more painkillers but only take them if absolutely necessary.” His gaze flicks to me then, sharp and knowing. “Make sure she eats before taking anything stronger. ”
I nod, my fingers curling protectively around Gia’s hand.
Moretti finishes his examination and starts packing up his bag. “She’s healing well, all things considered. Rest is the best thing for her right now. No stress, no heavy lifting, and no getting out of bed for at least another day .” He shoots Gia a pointed look at the last part as if he already knows she’s going to push herself too soon.
She sighs, rolling her eyes but nodding. “Fine.”
Moretti stands, giving me a look. “She’ll need help for a while. Make sure she does small walks every few hours, just around the room. It will help prevent her from getting pneumonia”
“I know.” My voice is firm. I won’t let her out of my sight.
The doctor nods, satisfied, then turns back to Gia. “If you notice anything unusual, sharp pains, dizziness, fever, tell Vitali immediately. I’ll be on call if you need anything.”
Gia offers him a tired smile. “Thank you, Doc.”
He nods, then glances at me once more before heading for the door. “Take care of her, Vitali.”
I walk him out, locking the door behind him before returning to the bed. Gia is watching me, her expression unreadable.
“Come here,” she murmurs, lifting the blanket slightly.
I don’t hesitate. Sliding back into bed, I pull her against my chest, tucking her beneath my chin.
“I hate feeling like this,” she admits softly. “Weak.”
I tighten my hold on her, my fingers tracing slow, soothing patterns along her spine. “You’re not weak, amore mio .”
She exhales, pressing her face against my neck. “Just don’t leave. ”
“Never,” I vow. “Not now. Not ever.”
She sighs, finally relaxing into me, and I hold her as she drifts back into sleep, knowing I’ll be here when she wakes up.