Page 33 of Angelo's Vengeance

“Yes. It’s fine. Keep going.” My eyes found his. There was hesitation on his face, and his mouth was pinched. “I need clean bandages, too,” I reminded him. He already had them laid out. “I could call Frankie,” I offered. Maybe I should have anyway.

“No, we’ve got this,piccola. We’re a team.” He winked at me, which just did me in.

His fingers slid over the buttons on the shirt I was wearing. I’d borrowed one of Ilias’s dress shirts, tying it at the front, and as Angelo slipped it off, leaving me in my lounge pants and bra, each pass of his hands felt like a brand. I suppose I could help, but I was supporting my other arm, trying to relieve the strain and ignore the throbbing that seemed to radiate from the wound like the heat of a thousand suns.

“Whose shirt is this?” his tone had darkened, but his head was bowed as he lowered my pajama pants until they pooled around my ankles.

“My brother’s. Thank you for bringing my things here. That was kind.” His fingersmoved to my panties, and he hesitated. “I can’t take a bath with them on.” I’d shrug, but it would hurt too much. I wasn’t ashamed of my body—the thickness of my thighs or the softness of my belly.

“You’re beautiful, you know?” He eased them off and let me step out, starting on the bralette I was wearing. A nurse had kindly helped me with it, as my brothers weren’t an option. “I should have been faster,” he said, swallowing as he looked at the bandages.

“You came. That matters. I’m safe.” I wouldn’t touch the comments about my physique. Angelo blew hot and cold, and I still felt it was important to remember that he wasn’t here by choice. This was all a forced arrangement.

I slid into the warm water with a hiss of pain and pleasure, the ache in my shoulder a dull roar, yet the comfort of being submerged (at least my lower half) almost brought me to tears. I wished I could fill it up, but the doctor had been firm about keeping the wound as dry as possible. My breasts were bare except for my long hair that draped over them, but Angelo’s heated gaze told me he didn’t mind the free show. My traitorous nipples were hardunder his stare. Maybe I should care that he could see, but I didn’t. I leaned my head back against the curved porcelain, closing my eyes briefly and letting the scent of lavender and chamomile envelop me.

"Too hot?" he asked, his voice low.

"No. It's perfect," I breathed, then cracked one eye open to find him still watching me. His sleeves were rolled higher now, his forearms dusted with water droplets, veins pronounced, and skin glowing under the soft lights of the bathroom.

Angelo knelt beside the tub like some Roman statue come to life, a contradiction of violence and gentleness, a man whose hands were capable of ending lives and yet, somehow, were tender on my skin.

He was quiet, waiting.

I wanted to say something snarky, to cut the tension that had wrapped around us like thin but unbreakable silk thread. But the words got stuck somewhere between my lips and heart.

Instead, I dipped my good hand into the water and began washing what I could, stubbornly maintaining the illusion of independence. My hair was a whole other story—atangled mess of curls and frustration. I poked at it with a sigh.

"You're going to let me help you with that, right?" he asked.

I hesitated. There were so many levels to that request. But that was what had gotten me in the tub, and I wouldn’t bow out now. Letting Angelo Santelli touch my hair was far more intimate than the bath. I opened my mouth to object, but he was already kneeling behind me, taking the pitcher in his hand and pouring warm water over my hair with agonizing care.

"I’ll be gentle," he said, sensing my hesitation.

"You’re not exactly known for that," I muttered, but there was no heat behind the words.

His chuckle was low and deep, trailing across my neck like a gentle caress. “Perhaps I’ll surprise you. Maybe I’ve grown up a little.”

His fingers moved through my curls, detangling with gentle patience. The pads of his thumbs grazed my scalp. I felt myself begin to unravel under his hands, strand by strand.

"You don’t have to do this," I whispered, unsure if I wanted him to stop.

"I want to." His voice was gruff. "After everything… I need to."

And that did it. The words twisted in my chest, splintering something that had been rigid since the plantation. Since the bullet. Since I’d felt like maybe I wouldn’t make it out at all.

I turned just enough to see him. His face was shadowed, but his eyes were sharp. Full of unspoken things.

"I hate you," I said, my voice barely rising above the splash of water. The words weren’t entirely a lie, but there is no more accurate saying than, ‘There’s a thin line between love and hate.’ That encapsulated my feelings towards Angelo over the last decade, constantly vacillating between the two.

His jaw flexed. “I know. I’ll fix it."

“I’m not sure you can.” It was as honest as I could be. Deep in my heart, bitterness had clouded over that childish love that I’d had for him, and it had turned into acid. It had colored everything I did through the years.

He paused for a moment. “I knew about the blood oath. It made me want to breaksomething —the very idea of it. My father forced me to sign. He beat me right at the table and made me press my finger to that paper.” There was a hearty sigh. “I’ve just always had a lot of feelings about it.”

God, what were we doing?

I dipped my chin, eyes burning.

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