Chapter 18
CHIARA
I gasp, instantly jumping to a sitting position from the thunderous bang somewhere close, waking me from the dead of sleep.
I clutch my chest with both hands, my heart racing with quick beats, ricocheting within my body. Glancing out the window, I find the thick cloud of darkness still covering the night sky.
My breaths leave in rapid bursts as my trembling hands lift the comforter off my body.
Who could that be? Is it Brian? My father? Maybe he found out I gave up his location and sent someone to kill me.
Thud.
A footstep causes the floor to creak.
My eyes bulge, my body running with an icy chill while my heart slams with every breath, almost exploding from within.
I slowly swing my feet out of the bed and just sit there.
Unable to move. Frozen in time.
Ice cold.
Shivering.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
The stomping footsteps get closer. I find the courage to get up, tiptoe across the floor, and lock the door, leaning my ear against it to see if I can hear any voices.
Nothing.
Whoever it is has stopped moving. The wooden floor creaks again.
I hear my exhales. Louder in the echo of the room.
The floor squeaks right outside my room, and my stomach flips, my pants getting louder. I have to find a place to hide. I swallow the heavy fear weighing me down into the floor, my legs refusing to move.
Please be Brian. I don’t want to die.
The footsteps return, heading away from me, and I hear a door close.
“Brian?” I whisper, almost to myself.
I have to know if it’s him. I have to know what happened tonight. If my staff is okay. My hand nears the doorknob, then backs away. I hate being afraid. It makes me feel weak and pathetic.
The amount of fear I lived in while I was growing up was overwhelming, and it’s kind of sad that I’m still living those days, in one way or another. My father has always been at the center of it all, and not much has changed.
Returning my palm to the doorknob, I attempt to turn it, but fear accosts me from every angle of this room. I give myself a few more seconds to stabilize my racing pulse and erratic heartbeats.
With massive apprehension, I turn the handle.
Slowly.
A little at a time.
Turn.
Turn.
The door squeaks as it parts.
Fuck.
I can practically taste the bile rising in my throat.
I wish I had a gun. My father taught me how to use one in case I needed to protect the club.
I know where Brian’s bedroom is. If I can run there and get inside, I’ll be safe. At least I hope so.
Okay. On three, I tell myself.
One. I part the door a little more and find the hallway covered in total darkness.
Two. I take a step out as my eyes adjust to the lack of light.
Three. I run like hell toward his room and open the door. I don’t even knock.
“Who the fuck is that?” he barks, and I hear what sounds like metal clanking.
“It’s Chiara. Don’t kill me,” I quickly say.
The lamp on his nightstand turns on, and he’s there sitting up, slouching, with a pistol in his hand, smears of blood marring the tattoo on his arm.
He doesn’t look right. Something’s wrong.
The strong, confident man is shadowed with a layer of pain.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Are you okay?”
I move forward with a single step.
He glares up, his chest inching up and down with ragged pants.
“Why’d you come in here?” He lifts the gun inadvertently as he speaks.
“I heard a loud noise. I thought it was my father.”
He snickers. “Your father wouldn’t dare show his face here.”
He leans forward, placing the gun on the nightstand.
“Fuck!” he growls, landing a palm on his shoulder.
I tilt my head to the side. “Are you hurt?”
A groan is his only answer.
“Did you get shot?” My eyes widen as my heart slams into my throat.
“Let me see!” I hurry toward him, kneeling to a sitting position as I grab his wrist.
“I’m fine.” His eyes delve into mine, and there’s pain within them.
“You’re not,” I say in a low tone, afraid he’ll stop looking at me if I speak any louder.
I tug on his hoodie. “Take it off.”
“What the fuck can you do?” he questions.
“Depending on the severity, I can remove the bullet, clean it, wrap it. Do you have a doctor?”
Not the first time I’ve done it, I want to say. When my father got shot a few years back, Raquel walked me through what to do in case I ever needed to.
He smirks. “I have someone if I need it.”
“Great. But since they’re not here, you’ve got me. So stop being all macho and shit and take that damn thing off so I can see the wound.”
He rises to his feet, and so do I.
“Damn, princess,” he chuckles, all sure of himself. “If you wanted to see me naked that badly, all you had to do was ask.”
“Not interested,” I grumble. “And what did I tell you about that word?”
He laughs, taking off the hoodie and throwing it on the floor by my feet. There’s a white shirt, now stained with too much blood, wrapped around his arm.
“Why didn’t anyone take you to the doctor?”
He snickers with a groan. “They would’ve if they knew.”
I shake my head at his stubbornness.
He sits back down on the edge of the bed. “It’s just a graze. I’ll live.”
“You’re an idiot. This isn’t the movies. You know how dangerous a gunshot wound on the arm can be if you hit a damn artery?”
“Are you a doctor too now?”
“No, but my cousin is. I know some shit.”
He sighs deeply. “I didn’t hemorrhage out. Still breathing. So I think my arteries are good, baby. Don’t worry.” The last few words are said facetiously.
“I’m not worried.”
I grimace as I unwrap the shirt and find a long fleshy wound. The blood seems to have stopped, for the most part.
“I need to clean this and re-wrap it.” I twist my lips with worry. “Where do you keep your ‘in case I get shot’ stuff?”
“Why the hell do you care enough to help me?”
“Maybe because I have a heart and you don’t. Now, where is it?”
He points to the left, at one of the doors. “Bathroom. Left bottom cabinet, under the sink.”
I run in, finding myself in a bathroom that’s a bigger version of the one he designated for me.
I open the cabinet, finding everything I need. Grabbing the saline, a roll of gauze, a pad, and cotton balls, I’m ready to go back out, but when I look up, he’s standing over the doorframe.
My heart stops as our gazes fall into one another’s. My stomach flips again, but this time it isn’t fear.
“Um, I—”
“I’ll sit here.” His mouth curves up at the corner. “Don’t want you dirtying my sheets.”
My breath falters, my body going instantly hot with images of us tangled in his bed.
He moves past me, lowering himself on the toilet lid.
“Let’s get this over with,” he says, extending his arm for me.
Making my way to him, I open the bottle of saline and pour a little right over his wound.
“Shit,” he winces. “You trying to kill me or something?”
“That’s for calling me princess.” I grin, pouring some more into his marred flesh.
He slants his head sideways with a taunting glare behind his gaze. “You’d better stop hurting me.”
He grabs my wrist, and my other hand with the saline in it, rattles.
“Why do I get the feeling you like it,” I taunt with an arch of my brow and a tip of my lips.
He clenches his jaw, his eyes boring into mine, confirming what I had already known. Relieving the grip from my hand, he lets me finish. And I don’t push my limits anymore. I clean him with care, then wrap his arm.
“Get to bed,” I demand.
“You’re telling me what to do now?”
“Someone has to.”
He laughs. “You’re a crazy woman. Not that I’m surprised.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I close the saline and put all the supplies away.
He treads over to his bed, with me close behind, and lowers himself into it, the uninjured arm tucked under the back of his head.
He peers up at me, his gaze soft. “Thanks. You didn’t have to.”
I ignore the gratefulness. “Did anyone else get hurt tonight?”
“None of your people got hurt. Everyone’s safe.”
I close my eyes and sigh with relief. “Sleep well, Brian. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
As I exit his room and shut the door behind me, I lean against it, overwhelmed with my unexplained feelings for him. I care about his well-being while I shouldn’t. It’s crazy even to me.
But my goal remains the same: getting the fuck out of here one way or another. I hope this incident between us was the turning point and that he learns to trust me. Maybe him getting shot was the best thing that could’ve happened.