Page 51 of Fierce Hearts

"I'm sorry," I managed. So much for finally beating my issues with blood. Issues I'd had ever since the day my father had died.

I'd gotten better at dealing with it to some extent, normally able to turn and walk away without becoming a mess. Leo had understood over the years, another reason I was all about the legitimate side of the business, not the darker stuff.

Blood and I didn't mix well.

"Don't be." Sofia had already gathered first aid supplies from under the kitchen sink and began cleaning the cut on my hand. "This isn't that deep, but it might need a butterfly bandage."

I watched her work, her movements precise and confident. "How did you know what to do? For the panic attack, I mean."

"Meredith used to have them, remember?" She applied antiseptic, her touch gentle despite the sting. "I got pretty good at helping her through them."

She glanced up at me, a hint of curiosity in her eyes. "For a man in the Donati crime world, that was quite a reaction to a little blood."

I gave a weak laugh. "I don't usually get involved in the bloody side of things."

"When you got shot during the shootout, you didn't react like this," she observed, carefully placing a butterfly bandage across the cut.

"I was more worried about you and Meredith then," I said with a shrug. "Too much happening to focus on the blood. Adrenaline and all that. Guess it overrode it."

She finished wrapping gauze around my hand, securing it with medical tape. "Why does it happen?"

I hesitated, then sighed. "It started after my father died."

Sofia's hands stilled. "Your father's death?"

"Yeah." I flexed my bandaged hand, testing the dressing. "There was a lot of blood that night. Leo and I... we both beat him pretty badly for what he did to Meredith."

I swallowed hard, the memories still vivid after all these years. "For a long time, I thought I'd killed him. That's what Leo told me after I had my first panic attack, that he thought it was guilt causing the reaction."

"And was it?" Sofia asked quietly.

I shook my head. "No, he told me right then that he'd been the one to land the final blow. He thought knowing I hadn't killed my own father would help stop it." I gave a humorless laugh. "Turns out it didn't matter. The trauma response was already wired in. But I've never regretted beating that bastard for what he did to Meredith."

"Good." Sofia bobbed her head. "He deserved what came his way."

I looked at her then—really looked at her. She was facing a situation that would shatter most people, and she was still showing strength, trying to find a way through, along with carrying my child.

My child.

Something shifted inside me, a fierce protectiveness unlike anything I'd ever felt before.

I leaned forward and kissed her, pouring every ounce of emotion I couldn't express into the contact.

She froze up, and I broke away, searching her startled gaze. Had I done the wrong thing?

"Gray, I just threw up, remember?"

I chuckled. Of course that was the issue. "I don't care," I murmured, kissing her again, deeper this time.

Her resistance lasted only seconds before she was kissing me back, her hands gripping my shirt. The heat between us built rapidly, the blend of tension and weeks of separation combusting into raw need.

"We shouldn't do this," she gasped as my lips moved to her neck. "Not now, not with everything?—"

"Okay," I agreed, pulling back slightly, my breathing ragged. "You're right. We need to figure all this out first?—"

But then she was kissing me again, her hands working at my belt. Whatever objections either of us had dissolved as clothing was hastily pushed aside, neither of us willing to break contact long enough for proper undressing.

I lifted her onto my lap as we sat on her kitchen floor, her legs wrapping around my waist. Our coming together was desperate, almost violent in its intensity—a physical manifestation of all the fear, anger, and need that had been building between us.

---