Page 15 of Brutal Heir
“Feck me, this place is unbelievable.”
CHAPTER 7
PERSONAL CARE
Rory
I can’t help but stare at the sprawling master bedroom with Alessandro pressed to my side. He’s a damned good faker, all cocky smirks and assured glances, but I can feel the tremor of pain radiating through his body with every step toward his room. It must be unbearable.
Forcing on the detached, clinical mask I’ve learned to wear around my patients, I focus on his bedroom as a distraction. I’ve seen cold rooms before. Hospital rooms, morgues, interrogation rooms. But nothing feels as cold as this one.
Alessandro’s master is all hard surfaces and perfect lines, stone, steel, glass, all in varying shades of black and gray. No warmth. No mess. No life.
Like the man himself.
God, he’d die if he ever saw the mess that is my room.
The bed is massive, perfectly made with dark sheets so crisp they look ironed. He probably has a maid that does that. One side doesn’t look like it’s been touched in weeks. The curtains aredrawn halfway, leaving just enough light to catch the reflection of the skyline on the windows. Even Manhattan looks cold from in here.
He peels his body from mine and limps in a few steps ahead of me, heading straight for the dresser. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak.
“Nice place,” I say lightly, scanning the room. “Very... emotionally repressed, Batman.”
That gets me a look. Not a full one. Just a slow, sideways cut of his eyes.
“I wasn’t going for cozy,” he mutters.
“No, really? You mean the ice castle vibe wasn’t a coincidence?”
The ghost of something, maybe a smirk, or a twitch, crosses his scarred mouth before he looks away.
The silence stretches between us, thick and brittle.
“You ready?” I ask gently, nodding toward the bathroom.
He doesn’t move for a long minute, and the hesitation in his dark gaze stirs something deep inside me.
“Where did my father find you anyway?” he finally mumbles as he eyes me from across the room.
“Actually, it was your cousins, Isabella and Serena, who found me.”
His mouth twists before a rueful chuckle slips out. “Those nosy, meddlesome little fuckers.”
“You’re lucky to have family who cares, Alessandro.” The words are out before I can stop them, sending instant regret spiraling. No need to overshare, Rory. Over the years, I’ve learned to keep a professional distance with my patients, and the best way to do that is to give them little of me. Given the nature of the personal care I provide, it’s essential to draw the line.
“You’ve done burn care before?” Mismatched eyes lift to mine, a hint of vulnerability sneaking through. I’d noticed theunusual coloration the moment I walked into the apartment. Heterochromia. Less than one percent of the population has it.
He looks at me like he’s daring me to stare.
So I do. Not out of pity. Not out of curiosity. But because… I can’t look away.
One of his eyes is a sharp, glacial blue. Cold enough to cut glass. The kind of stare that keeps people out. The other—dark. Stormy. Endless. It holds something heavier. Pain, maybe. Or guilt. Or both.
It’s the contrast that hits me the hardest. The sharp, brilliant blue of a boy who once thought he ruled the world, and the shadowed midnight of a man who watched it burn.
It’s like he’s made of two halves. Light and dark. Beauty and ruin. Pride and punishment. And somehow, it works.
Not because it’s perfect. But because it’s real.
