Page 75 of Brutal Heir
Once we’re inside, the silence stretches between us, thick and awkward and laced with all the words neither of us is brave enough or maybe stupid enough to say.
I stand at the edge of the bathroom counter and wait for him to assume the position in front of the mirror. When he does, I inhale a steadying breath, but it only backfires, filling my nostrils with his tantalizing scent.Focus, damn it, Rory.
Carefully unwinding the compression bandage from his chest, I pretend my hands aren’t shaking just a little. That I don’t remember exactly how his lips felt on mine last night. How desperately I kissed him back. How abruptly I pulled away.
Alessandro stands in front of the mirror, shirtless, jaw locked, staring at the floor like the silver veins on the marble are suddenly the most interesting thing he’s ever seen.
“After all this time, you could at least pretend you don’t hate this,” I mumble, trying for levity, but my voice comes out thinner than I want it to.
“I don’t hate this,” he mutters back, still not looking at me.
I blink down at the gauze in my hand, revealing the newly pink skin beneath the healing graft. “You’re healing well,” I murmur, because it’s easier than sayingI don’t know what last night meant. “The new layer’s taking nicely.”
He grunts. It’s noncommittal and entirely unhelpful.
I cut a piece of fresh bandage and smooth it over his ribs with gentle, clinical fingers. But the moment my skin brushes his, we both flinch. Not from pain.
From memory.
That kiss.
It’s everywhere now, soaked into the fabric of our silence, clinging to every breath. I see it in the way his chest rises faster under my touch. In the way his gaze flicks up to meet mine for half a second before darting away.
“If you need more time,” he says suddenly, voice low and rough. “You could take a few days off. If you still need space, I mean. To recover from what you saw at the Vault…”
I pause, tape in hand. My pulse stutters.
“No, I’m fine,” I lie. “And honestly, I don’t want to sleep on Shelly’s couch again. Her boyfriend snored like a feckin’ chainsaw.”
Alessandro huffs out a breath, half laugh, half sigh, and something about the sound loosens the knot in my chest.
Another few minutes of endless silence stretches between us as I focus on the gauze, his mending skin, and meticulous snips of the bandages.
“Do you regret it?” he asks after a beat. He doesn’t clarify. He doesn’t need to.
The kiss.
So, I guess we’re not pretending it didn’t happen anymore...
I focus too long on the tape as I attempt to switch gears. “Do you?”
“No,” he says quietly.
I swallow. “Then neither do I.”
Another silence falls, but this one feels different. Not cold. Not charged.
Just waiting.
“Even if it can’t happen again.” I force the words despite the physical pain it causes.
His eyes lift, meeting mine through the reflection. “Right,” he murmurs.
“Because we should keep this professional,” I continue.
“Of course.”
“Because I think what we have is pretty great, and I don’t want to risk that or all the strides you’ve made toward recovery.” I smooth the last piece of bandage down and step back. “All done.” Then I reach for the medical tape to pack it away.
