Page 95 of Tainted Obsession 1
Ignoring the answering flare of pain, I ask, “Is Carmen okay?”
She was right beside me when the violence unfolded around us.
“Carmen is fine.” He reassures me, but his jaw is hard as granite. “You need to stay calm. Don’t move.”
I relax against him, obeying without thought.
“But what happened?” I ask again. “Was anyone hurt?”
My eyes search his, looking for signs of pain. If my dark savior is injured…
“Youwere hurt,” he almost growls. “You were shot, Evelyn.”
Lines of strain appear around his flashing eyes, but the pain I see in their depths is for what happened to me. He wasn’t hurt in the fight.
I breathe a small sigh of relief and trail my fingers along his jaw to ease the tension away. His rough stubble has grown longer, almost a short beard. He’s uncharacteristicallydisheveled, his glossy black curls untidy, as though he’s run his hand through his hair many times.
“How long ago?” I ask quietly.
“Ten days,” he replies in clipped tones. “I’ve been managing your pain, but I need you to stay still and focus on recovering. You don’t need to worry about anything. I’ll take care of you. Get some more sleep.I’ll be right here.”
I blink. I’ve been mostly unconscious for over a week, and Massimo has been taking care of me.
He looks shattered.
“What about you?” I challenge quietly. “Have you slept?”
He turns his face into my hand and kisses my palm. “I’m fine,dolcezza.”
I tip my chin back. “I’ll sleep if you sleep.”
His eyes narrow with displeasure, not caring for my defiance.
I caress his cheek, tracing the bold lines of his masculine features until most of the tension melts away.
He releases a low sound, something between a hum of contentment and a groan of pain. His eyes close, and his head drops back against the pillow.
“Farfallina…” he murmurs, an exhausted rebuke.
It’s my turn to shush him. I’m so tired, too, drugs still swirling in my system.
I rest my cheek on his chest and relax against him. His breathing turns deep and even, and mine slows to match. We both fall into a peaceful sleep.
The next week passes in a disjointed blur. Massimo insists that I continue taking painkillers that make me drowsy, and I don’t protest. He wants me to heal quickly, and I have no reason toargue. The sooner I recover, the sooner I can stay conscious long enough to have a real conversation with him.
As it is, I spend the days sleeping in his arms, eating from his hand, and being tenderly bathed by him. He sees to my every need, and my whole world centers on him. I’m completely reliant on him, but I don’t feel so much as a flicker of disquiet. Being with him feels right, despite my lingering pain.
I’ve never been cared for like this. No one in my family noticed me at all while I was growing up, and George cruelly neglected my needs. He insisted that I bend over backward to please him, and nothing I did was ever enough. The point was always to make me feel small and inadequate, to keep me desperately trying harder to make him happy.
I see the years of abuse so clearly now that I’ve experienced what life is like with Massimo. He would do anything for me, and he asks for nothing in return. There are no guilt trips or bargaining. He gives me everything I could ever need or desire, and that seems to make him happy.
I want to learn more about Massimo while I rest, so I ask what he usually does with his free time.
“I like to read,” he replies.
“Really?”
I can’t quite hide my surprise. He’s a dangerous man, a man of action. It’s hard to picture him quietly reading.
