Page 151 of Brutal Heir
“I’m fine,” I lie.
He doesn’t answer. Just sets everything on the nightstand and kneels beside the bed, eyes scanning me like I might shatter under his hands.
“Your color’s better today.” His voice is low, haunted. “You ate, and you didn’t pass out in the shower.”
“That’s because you didn’t let me take a real shower.”
“Because you still bleed when you breathe too hard.”
I open my mouth, then shut it again.
He peels back the covers, hands careful, practiced. He hasn’t let anyone else touch me since we got back from Belfast two weeks ago. Not the nurse, not the doctor who comes by every few days. Just him.
I should protest. Say he doesn’t have to do this. But I don’t. Because a tiny part of me loves the way he dotes on me. I’ve never had that before.
And I definitely don’t protest when he lifts my tank top like it’s made of glass. Like I’m some fragile little thing in need of his protection. Not when his fingers skim the edge of the gauze taped over the bullet wound on my right side. Not when I see the flicker in his eyes. Grief, guilt, and rage are all carved into the planes of that beautiful, scarred face.
“Ready?” he asks, voice barely more than gravel.
I nod.
The first tug of the bandage stings. I flinch before I can help it. He goes still.
“Sorry,” he murmurs.
“It’s okay,” I breathe. “Just… keep going.”
He does. Slowly, carefully, like I’m sacred. The wound’s healing, ugly and pink, sutures like little soldiers lining the angry flesh. No infection. No fever. But the ache is bone deep.
“You’re good at this,” I whisper.
“I learned from the best.” The hint of a smile emerges before he leans in, inspecting it closer. His thumb hovers just beside the wound. “You should’ve run in the opposite direction,” he whispers, not quite looking at me. “You should’ve let me take the bullet.”
A rueful smile curls my lips. “That’s not how this works.”
“I came so damned close to losing you, Rory.”
My breath catches, but it’s not from pain this time.
His eyes finally meet mine. There’s no armor left in them. Just the man who sat beside my hospital bed for eight straight days. The man who hasn’t slept more than three hours a night since.
“You didn’t,” I whisper.
But he doesn’t answer. Just picks up the antiseptic, dabs it over the raw skin like a prayer. I hiss again, and his jaw clenches.
“I used to think this was weakness,” he mutters as he secures the final bandage. “Taking care of someone. Needing someone.”
“And now?”
His eyes flick to mine. “Now I think the only thing that scares me more… is losing you.”
The world stops. The snow keeps falling.
And for once, I don’t feel the weight of pain, or stitches, or the ghosts of our past pressing in. Just the warmth of his fingers brushing mine. The quiet thrum of something that’s survived bullets, betrayal and blood and everything in between.
I reach for his hand. He doesn’t let go. The brilliant emerald and the matching diamond band on my ring finger catches the light, bringing a smile to my face. “When are we going to tell them?”
“When you’re well enough to endure a group hug from my overenthusiastic family, Mrs. Rossi.” The hard line of his jaw softens on the final words.
