Page 25 of Brutal Heir
I dart into the bathroom, the door slamming behind me like a gunshot. I brace my palms against the cold marble sink, arms shaking beneath the weight of fear and fury, and something else I can’t fucking name.
Why the hell does she get under my skin like this? She’s just a nurse, just like Gwen. I let her see me naked dozens of times. The fact that she was nearly in her sixties probably helped.
I glare at my reflection, at the man staring back with half his face a gnarled mess and the other carved from stone. My pulseis still raging, not just from the pain, but from the feel of Rory’s hand wrapped around mine. The softness. The warmth. The damn concern in her eyes like she actually gives a shit.
No one looks at me like that anymore.
I drag a hand down my face and suck in a breath, wincing as the stretch tugs at healing flesh. I’m not ready for this. Not physically. Not emotionally. And definitely not with her.
A knock sounds behind me.
“Alessandro?” she calls softly. Not chipper this time. Not snarky. Just calm. “I know you don’t want to do this. But you need to.”
I grit my teeth. “What I need is space.”
“Well, tough shite. You get me instead.”
The door creaks open, and I don’t stop her. Maybe I should. Maybe if I had an ounce of pride left, I’d bark out another order, threaten to fire her, demand she get the fuck out of my bathroom.
But I don’t.
Because some twisted part of me doesn’t want her to go.
She steps inside with quiet confidence, carrying a folded towel and a plastic basin of supplies. “Do you want me to check the water again?”
“You really think I give a shit about a few degrees?” I mutter.
She shrugs, setting everything down with practiced ease. “You’d be surprised. Burn patients are more sensitive to slight variations in temperature. Your father gave me your charts to look over and your former nurse?—”
I cut her off with a dismissive wave. “Of course he did.”
She doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she crosses the tile, eyes darting to mine before drifting away again. “I’ll let you undress on your own,” she says, voice low. “If you need help, you can ask.”
My mouth opens, ready to bark something cruel, anything to drive her away, but the words die in my throat. Because this… this is the first time someone hasn’t hovered. Hasn’t stared. Hasn’t tried to take over.
She’s giving me space. Control. Choice.
And fuck, that hits harder than anything.
I force a swallow. “You sure you want to do this?”
That gets her attention. She turns to me, those emerald eyes blazing now. “I wouldn’t have come in here if I wasn’t.”
“I’m not just scarred,” I rasp. “It’s worse than anything you’ve probably seen.”
She straightens slowly, setting the towel aside. “I’ve seen worse, remember?”
“No,” I shake my head. “You haven’t seenme.”
Her lips part, but no sound comes out.
I press on, the words dragging out of me like glass. “It’s not just my back or chest. It’s everywhere. My thigh. My ribs. Hell, half of my goddamned body. Skin grafts. Discoloration. Shit that makes nurses flinch when they think I’m not looking.”
“I’m not them.” Her voice is quiet but firm. She steps closer, her fingers ghosting near the hem of my shirt. “But if you really think I’m not a good fit for you, and you want me to leave, say it now. And I will.”
Indecision wars at my insides. Even if I send her home,Papàwill only find me another nurse. One less enjoyable to look at and definitely less entertaining to fight with.
“No…” I grumble, keeping my head down.
