Page 60 of Unholy Union
“I’ve got you,” I say.
Her hazel eyes connect with mine as if searching for something. Maybe proof that this is more than some public performance or strategic play on my part.
Just another move in the toxic game we’ve been playing.
I don’t shy away from her stare, instead admiring how the bright hospital lighting makes everything else in the room look sterile and artificial. Yet Sabrina’s eyes still look so honest and real, a natural golden tint to them, even as glassy as they are right now.
From the doorway, the nurse’s voice cuts in again. “Err, would she prefer a wheelchair?”
I don’t look away from my wife as I answer. “Yes. That would probably make more sense.”
Apparently, Papà wasn’t the only one who assumed Sabrina would be left with the staff at home. Once we make it back to the Valente estate, it becomes clear Sabrina seems to expect the same.
I’m back to scooping her up in my arms, carrying her upstairs to our bedroom. She holds on, peering at me with wide, startled eyes every step of the way. I set her down on her side of the bed and tell her to stay put where she is.
Though she didn’t break or fracture anything, she’s still tender and sore practically everywhere. It hurts to even breathe too hard, much less move around. She was advised bedrest for the next couple days, and I intend on making sure that happens.
I return a minute later with the shower running in our ensuite and a folded nightgown for her to change into afterward.
Her brows lift in question, eyes hooked on mine.
I already know what she’s thinking—am Ireallyabout to help her shower?
And I can’t blame her for the skepticism. We haven’t exactly gotten along; we’ve been at each other’s throats, fighting like cats and dogs most of the time.
She’s told me she hates my guts, and I’ve never been too fond of her either. I’m pretty sure if you asked either of us, that hasn’t changed even now. But that doesn’t mean we can’t temporarily put our differences aside during moments like these.
I kneel in front of her to unbuckle then slide off her sandals. “Don’t interpret it as some sweeping romantic gesture, principessa. I’m helping you get situated. And no need to be shy about it either—I’ve already seen every inch of your body, remember?”
She rolls her eyes, but otherwise doesn’t respond.
I don’t push for anything more.
I understand why she’s so quiet; my wife, for as defiant and strong-willed as she behaves, is delicate in many ways.
While she’s the daughter of a mafia don, she’s been guarded most of her life. Heavily protected and shielded from the dangers this lifestyle brings. It wouldn’t surprise me if today was the first real time she’s ever been shot at.
That alone causes another pulse of anger to beat through me.
I finish sliding off her sandals, then rise to help tug off her torn, bloodied dress. Her bra and panties are next to be discarded.
The steam from the shower has started to float into our bedroom by now.
I scoop her up again, not caring that she gets blood and grime on what was once a spotless Giorgio Armani dress shirt.
Sabrina sighs in relief the moment she’s under the spray of the hot water. She closes her eyes and tips her head back, letting the water wash away the blood, dirt, and grime from today’s ordeal. She combs her fingers through her curls, working shampoo between her strands until that’s rinsed away too.
I help her, gathering her long, dark hair and massaging my fingers to her scalp.
Her lips part, a small moan humming from her throat.
Though she’s naked, and her body is truly a sight to behold, there’s nothing sexual about the moment. It’s more about caring for her, making sure she’s cleaned up and feeling better.
Minutes later, as she emerges warm and toweled off, she almost looks like a new woman. She slips on the nightgown I’d put out earlier and crawls into bed to do what the doctor advised—get some rest.
I set down a glass of water and some of her pain meds. “Medication time.”
“You don’t need to help me, Cato. You can leave.”
