Page 28 of Twisted Devotion

“No,” I reply flatly.

He looks like he’s about to argue but thinks better of it.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“James, sir.”

I grunt a reply and walk past him. I make a mental note to reassign him. Someone that young and fresh doesn’t belong on house duty where I have to see his face. Not when that face reminds me so much of Ken.

I grab my gun from the entryway table before stepping into the darkness. The road ahead is empty, the silence broken only by the rhythmic sound of my footsteps.

I run until the burn in my legs drowns out the thoughts in my head. The docks, the ambush, the bodies—it all fades into the background. Out here, with no one watching, I can let myself breathe.

When I finally return, the sun is high in the sky, but the mansion is still eerily quiet. The staff moves through the halls like ghosts, careful not to disturb anything.

I head back to the bedroom, my shirt damp with sweat. Aria's frame is still squeezed at the very edge of the bed, and the blanket is wrapped tightly around her body.

I don’t have time to determine if she’s still sleeping or faking it because I notice a warmth spreading across my stomach. I see a dark stain blooming on my vest—blood.

Damn it.

The stitches must have ripped from carrying Aria up the stairs yesterday or over-stretching myself during this run.

I try to pull the vest off, but a sharp, blinding pain shoots through my side, restricting how much I can move. I barely hold back from cursing out loud.

My hand trembles as I attempt again, but the wound pulls at even the slightest movement.

I groan, and the frustration I feel at myself only intensifies. It’s not my first gunshot wound, and it probably won’t be my last.

Why was it so damn hard to take off a goddamn shirt?

“Need help?”

The voice startles me, and I look up to see Aria sitting in bed. Her face is blank, and her eyes are fixed on me.

“Have you been watching me this whole time?” I ask, my voice sharp.

“Maybe.”

“Enjoying the show?”

She shrugs, her lips curving into a smirk. “Yes, Nicolas. I was really enjoying seeing you in excruciating pain. But your groans are disturbing my sleep.”

I glare at her, but she throws the blanket aside and stands, walking toward me. Her hair is messy, her dress rumpled. There’s a faint black stain beneath her eyes, and her lipstick is smudged along the edge of her lips. Yet, somehow, she still looks beautiful.

Before I can tell her to sit back down, she reaches for the hem of my shirt.

“What are you doing?”

She doesn’t answer, just lifts the fabric carefully. Her hands are gentle, her touch light, but every movement sends a dull ache through my side. I stand still, letting her work, but my jaw tightens.

Why is she doing this?

Her face is close to my shoulder, and I can feel her breath against my skin. Her focus is entirely on the wound, her brows furrowed in concentration.

I watch her, trying to figure her out. She’s been nothing but fire and defiance since the moment we met. Why the sudden kindness? What’s her angle?

She carefully peels the shirt away from the dried blood. I hear her slight intake of breath when she sees the injury. Her fingers brush against my skin, and I can’t stop how my body tenses.

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