Page 134 of Salvatore

Salvatore glances over his shoulder, his stride steady. “Get the car door for me.”

The guard runs in front of us, dressed in all black, and yanks the passenger door open. “What happened?”

“I’m yet to find out.” Salvatore settles me gently into the seat, the stab wounds in my left hip-ish and ass area protesting my weight. “Don’t let anyone in the house.” He dumps his cell and car fob into the center console and straps me in. “Not even Catarina. Tell her she can have the day off. I’ll text you with more instructions when I can.”

Salvatore retreats. My door slams. Then the half-naked, brilliantly muscled man jogs around the front of the vehicle and climbs behind the wheel.

“I really shouldn’t go to the hospital,” I repeat as he guns the engine. “It’s too risky.”

“I’m not going to watch you bleed out.”

“Why not? I’m meant to disappear.”

His jaw ticks as he accelerates toward the gates. “Not like this,mi bella reina.”

That endearment shouldn’t affect me at a time like this. My focus needs to be on the blood pooling beneath my ass and the puncture wounds that litter my body like freckles. Instead my heart catches. My pulse falters.

I keep my focus on him as he speeds through the subdued midnight streets of Virginia Beach, the moonlight dancing over his face, the intense focus in his expression unwavering.

If he truly doesn’t know, he’s going to find out eventually. The grim trail of my bodily fluids won’t make it difficult to piece together. Then what will he think of me? What will he be forced to do to ensure my silence if I don’t flee?

“I appreciate all you’ve done.” The words whisper from my mouth, unbidden.

He shoots me a hard look before returning his attention to the road. “Quit talking like you’re dying.”

“I’m not. I just… I wanted you to know I’m not the complete all-star ungrateful bitch I make out to be.”

“Not once have I thought you were a bitch, Ivy.”

“Then I’m losing my touch because that’s the vibe I’ve been aiming for.”

He doesn’t respond despite me wanting him to. He’s all gruff and brooding, hyper-focused and guarded.

“I don’t like that I found it difficult accepting your help,” I admit, my lightheadedness darkening my vision at the edges. “With all my flawless, show-stopping bravado and unparalleled independence, it’s hard to be vulnerable.”

I anticipate a huffed laugh. A humorous disregard to the heavy feels.

All he gives me is more silence.

The animalistic intensity continues, his gaze pinpointed on the street ahead for agonizing seconds until he finally mutters, “I know.”

I wince, loathing the implication that he sees through my act… adoring it too.

“Tell me about the puncture wounds.” He speeds onto an exit ramp, overtaking vehicles as if they’re standing still. “Hospital staff are going to ask questions.”

Questions I don’t have to answer. Not honestly anyway.

“I don’t know.” I wipe the dripping blood from my wrist against the thigh of my pajamas. “I think I fell.”

His nostrils flare. “Youthinkyou fell? Onto what? A fucking cactus?”

“The details are foggy.”

“My fucking ass they are.”

I drag my attention to the blur of passing buildings and cars.

Even if I did trust him not to side with his own mother, starting that conversation would mean addressing another trauma box. A relatively new one. Freshly packed. And I’m in no state of mind to do it.

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