Page 387 of Rosetti Family New York
The joke falls flat. His usual smirk is strained, not quite reaching his eyes. Even hurt, he's still trying to be the smooth operator.
"The shirt needs to come off so I can see how bad it is."
He struggles with the buttons, fingers clumsy with pain and exhaustion. After watching him fumble with the third one, I step closer. "Let me."
My hands brush against his as I work the buttons free, and I feel the heat radiating from his skin. Up close, I can see the bruises starting to bloom across his chest, dark purple marks that will be worse tomorrow. The metallic scent of blood mixes with his cologne, something expensive and masculine that makes my stomach flutter despite everything.
The shirt falls away, and I suck in a sharp breath.
His torso is a map of violence. The gash along his ribs is worse than I thought, a jagged line that curves around his side, deep enough that I can see the white of bone beneath. But it's not the only injury. Bruises cover his chest and shoulders, some fresh and red, others already turning purple. Smaller cuts crisscross his arms, defensive wounds from blocking something sharp.
And underneath all the damage, he's... beautiful. Lean muscle and golden skin, broad shoulders that taper to a narrow waist. The kind of body that belongs in marble, not sitting bloodied on a couch.
"Dear God," I whisper. "What did they do to you?"
"Nothing I didn't give back twice as hard." He watches me examine the wounds, green eyes tracking my every movement. "You don't have to do this, Isabella. I can handle it."
"Stop being stubborn." I open the kit, hands steady despite the way my heart is racing. "This is going to hurt."
"I've had worse."
I pour antiseptic onto a clean cloth, the sharp smell filling the air between us. "When?"
"What?"
"When have you had worse?" I press the cloth to the gash, and he hisses through his teeth. The muscles in his abdomen clench, and I can't help but notice the way they move under his skin. "Tell me something while I clean this."
For a moment, I think he won't answer. Then his voice comes out quiet, rougher than usual. "I broke my arm when I was ten. Didn't tell anyone for three days."
My hands pause in their work. "Three days?"
"My grandfather was staying with us, he had a nasty temper. Thought weakness was something you beat out of kids." He stares at the ceiling, not meeting my eyes. "I hid it until Sal found me crying in the bathroom. He carried me to the ER himself."
The cloth in my hand is already stained red. I rinse it in the bowl of water I've prepared, watching the clear liquid turn pink. "That's horrible."
"That was the day I knew who'd really protect me." His voice is distant, like he's talking about someone else. "Dad never asked questions. Just took care of it."
I work quietly, cleaning the wound with careful precision. The gash is deep but clean, no signs of infection. It'll need stitches, but he'll heal. My fingers move along his skin, wiping away blood and dirt, and I try to ignore the way his muscles tense under my touch.
He's completely still, letting me work. Trusting me with his pain in a way that feels intimate, more personal than anything we've shared before.
"You're good at this," he says finally, voice soft.
"Chase made sure I knew how to handle medical situations." I thread a needle, the familiar weight of it between my fingers. "He said you never knew when you'd need to patch someone up without questions."
"Smart man." But there's something dark in his voice when he says it. "Even if he's a bastard."
The needle slides through his skin, and he doesn't flinch. Just watches me work with those intense green eyes, like he's memorizing every detail. I can feel the heat of his gaze, the way it makes my skin warm and my hands slightly unsteady.
"Why didn't you call for help?" I ask as I make the second stitch. "Your brothers, I mean."
He's quiet for so long I think he won't answer. Then: "Because this was my mess to clean up."
"What happened?"
"Meeting went sideways. Someone decided to send a message." His hand moves to cover mine where it rests on his chest, fingers warm against my skin. "But I got the message across too."
I should pull away. Should maintain the distance I've been trying to rebuild. But something about seeing him like this, vulnerable and hurt, makes it impossible.
