Page 77 of Unholy Union
Cato chuckles, still half-propped against the cushions, one arm draped over his stomach. “And now you see why I preferred this to the ER, principessa.”
I shake my head, still processing what’s happened. “That man didn’t even ask you if you were okay.”
He grins wider. “That’s the way I prefer it. He gets paid handsomely for discretion.”
“Whatever you say. I’m just happy you’re in one stitched-up piece.”
Cato cocks a brow, the corner of his mouth tilting. “Were you worried about me?”
I lower myself to the floor with a tired exhale, curling up on the plush rug beside the sofa. It’s thick and soft, like everything else in this apartment, balancing luxury with a layer of dark masculinity. I rest my cheek against the edge of the sofa cushion before glancing up at him through my lashes.
“Well,” I murmur, “I didn’t want to be widowed at twenty-three, if that’s what you’re asking.”
A low, wolfish laugh rumbles from his chest before he winces due to his gunshot wound. But it does nothing to deter the grin that spreads across his face a second later as he looks at me with his dark, gleaming eyes.
There’s a sudden fondness in the air and I’m not sure where it came from. I can feel it and I’m pretty sure Cato does too.
It’s what makes me reach out for him without even thinking about it. My hand lands on his forearm, fingertips gliding across the thick and sturdy length.
Cato has a nice body in general, but I’ve always noticed his forearms more than anything else. The way they look so defined when he rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirts and how the veins protrude, especially when he clenches his fists.
He’s not the hairiest guy, but he does have some sparse hair on his forearm—the same dark, almost obsidian shade as the rest of his body—and it feels nice and coarse against my fingertips.
It might sound strange, but after a near-death experience like tonight, it’s the small things like this that remind me I might appreciate my husband more than I realized.
My throat aches as I go to swallow and find it difficult. Suddenly, I’m swinging into emotional territory, and I’d normally hate it, but after what’s happened…
“Um…” I stammer, glancing at the rug. “But seriously… I’m glad you’re okay, Cato. And… thank you. For what you did tonight.”
“Taking you to the ballet?”
I roll my eyes, though the corners of my mouth twitch. “No. I mean… taking the bullet.”
He gives no reaction, as if he doesn’t understand what I mean.
“You pushed me out of the way, Cato.”
The truth hangs between us for a few seconds, as we remain still and silent. I drop my hand and draw my legs to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. My gaze drifts to the window where the Big Apple’s lights shine no matter how late the hour.
“I mean, that’s the second time someone’s tried to murder me in two weeks,” I think aloud. “Should I be concerned?”
Rather than answer, Cato grabs my face. He leans forward, fingers sliding under my chin, dragging my gaze back to his.
Suddenly, I’m peering into his intense eyes that have only darkened like an abyss.
“Nobody touches what’s mine, Sabrina. Not while I’m still breathing.”
His thumb strokes the underside of my jaw and elicits a sharp shiver through my body. I find myself so drawn to him, so locked into him that I nod.
I believe him. I trust him.
Something I thought I would never say about Cato Valente.
Another knock rattles against the penthouse door and disrupts the moment between us.
I flinch, startled not by the volume but by the timing. It’s after midnight—who would show up at Cato’s Manhattan apartment where he rarely seems to spend the night himself?
Apparently, Cato has the same thought. His gaze shifts to the sound, his brows furrowing.
