Page 57 of Brutal Heir
“It was never who I was,” he rasps, voice hoarse. “I refuse to let it define me. Not anymore.” His head bows, shoulders trembling, and for a moment I think he might break.
I slide my hand over his and squeeze tight. “It never did,” I whisper. “You’re the strongest man I’ve ever known, Ale.” Rough skin beneath my palm catches my eye, calling attention to the torn, bloodied flesh across his knuckles.
“What happened to your hand?” I shriek, pulling back my own to survey the damage.
“It’s nothing.” He jerks his hand free, hiding it behind his back.
“Did something happen with your father at the office?”
“It was stupid. We got into an argument, and I got pissed and put my fist through a wall. Nothing serious, I swear.”
I eye him skeptically, certain there’s more to this story than he’s letting on. But he’s already focused on the mangled wheelchair below, a triumphant smile edging across his lips. When he finally lifts his gaze to mine, the look in his eyes steals my breath.
Fierce. Free. Alive.
The week flies by with a steady routine of sponge baths, dressing changes, physical therapy and occasional visits to the Velvet Vault. I’m beginning to feel as much at home in the nightclubas Alessandro, though we never venture during evening hours when Manhattan’s elite invades the trendy locale.
Despite both Vincent and Lawson urging Alessandro to make an appearance during business hours, he’s declined on multiple occasions. I’ve now made it my personal mission to get him back into that club. With the physical scars healing, it’s time to delve into the psychological ones.
Those are typically the hardest ones, but there’s nothing more fulfilling than conquering them.
So I march into the living room holding two ornate masks behind my back, my hair styled in soft waves across my bare shoulders and wearing a scandalous little black dress I brought from my college days in Belfast. It hasn’t seen the light of day since I landed on this side of the Atlantic. The indecent hemline barely covers my arse, and the plunging neckline gives my tiny boobs way more cleavage than they deserve.
Alessandro is stretched across the couch watching the news in nothing but low-slung sweatpants. I find my gaze drifting over the bandages and instead focusing on the muscled male beneath. In a few short weeks, the physical therapy has made quite an impact already.Quit it, Rory!
Getting my head out of the gutter, I drop the glittering masks behind a pillow, then perch on the armrest of the couch beside him, crossing my legs. The vase of fresh fire lilies catches my eye on the coffee table as I sit.Even fire gives birth to beauty. It couldn’t be more true in this case.
The man has surprisingly become quite a good patient, and sometimes I’m convinced he actually looks forward to our nightly baths. The absence of his shirt would suggest I’m correct.
But I have bigger plans for us tonight.
“Don’t tell me it’s bath time already?” he groans without turning his head to look at me. Despite the annoyance in histone, the spark of excitement I catch from the corner of my eye calls him a big fat liar.
“Actually, I was thinking we could go to the Velvet Vault tonight.”
That gets his attention.
Alessandro’s head swivels over his shoulder, and those dual-hued orbs widen as they drink me in.
Now thatreallygets his attention.
He sits up, heated gaze devouring me like a starving man presented with a forbidden feast. It’s slow, hungry, and utterly shameless. It razes across the swell of my breasts then dips down to my exposed thighs. That look is more lethal than any weapon in any man’s arsenal. “Dio, Rory…” he mutters under his breath.
“Is that a yes then?” I offer a cocky grin, despite the heat his gaze has ignited across every inch of my body.
Slowly, he draws those mesmerizing eyes, one the deepest sapphire and the other a startling midnight, back up to meet my own. “Huh?” he stutters.
“It’s time for you to show your face at the Velvet Vault. You’re no closer to discovering who’s the culprit skimming money from the club. Maybe if we’re actually there during business hours, you’ll see something.”
He rises, gaze still intent on me, or my dress. Then that flicker of excitement wanes, his expression falling. “I can’t…”
“Why not?”
“Do I really have to spell it out for you?” he grinds out, his hand motioning up and down his bandaged torso.
“No one will see the bandages or the compression garments, Alessandro. You’ll be fine with a dress shirt for one night. You don’t need to put on a full suit and tie.”
“No…” He shakes his head, eyes chasing to the floor.
