Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
He sets his glass down on the sideboard, then rolls his shoulders. “Drink?”
I stare at the second glass he’s already poured . . . red wine, dark enough that it almost looks like blood.
“I’m not drinking with you,” I hiss.
His head tilts. “Scared you’ll start enjoying it?”
“Scared you’ll poison me,” I retort.
A low sound vibrates out of him. A laugh, and it’s a genuine one, and I hate that I like the sound. “There she is.”
I don’t move toward the wine. Instead, I move to leave because I need space.
Distance will do me some good right now. If I stay, I might forget why I don’t like him.
I take one step, but my feet halt when I see something that looks like pain flicker across Lorenzo’s face.
I watch him for a beat as he shifts his weight. I wonder what’s bothering him, but then his hand goes to his side, and it looks like he winces.
“Are you—?” The words catch in my throat, unwanted. “Are you hurt?”
His eyes lift, sharp. “No.”
My gaze continues to look at his hand, eyes narrowing. Something is on his sweater. It almost looks like a faint stain near his rib. It’s dark . . .
Blood.
My pulse jumps, and he catches me noticing.
His jaw tightens. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s bleeding,” I snap.
He takes a slow breath. “It’s handled.”
I point at the stain. “Handled by what? Or better question, by who? Your ego?”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Have you always talked so much?”
“Yep. What about you? Have you always been this dumb?” I fire back, taking a step closer despite myself. “Where’s Rafe?”
“Checking the perimeter,” he responds.
“And you’re just . . . bleeding out for fun?”
His gaze holds mine for a beat before he turns away without answering and walks toward the hallway.
For some reason, I find myself following him . . . I hate my body.
After a few more seconds, he stops and pushes open a door. It’s dim inside, and I can’t see much before he shuts the door behind us, making it even darker.
A shiver runs up my spine.
Lorenzo moves to a cabinet, opens it, and pulls out a clean cloth, antiseptic, and gauze. He acts like it’s just another day, but what kind of man stores this stuff in a cabinet in a study?
A bad man who needs to . . .
I try to swallow down that thought as he moves.
“I can—” I start and then stop. Do I offer to help or not? I’m at a loss. “You don’t have to . . .”
Lorenzo’s eyes flick up. “Don’t start.”
“I wasn’t starting,” I lie, stepping closer anyway. “I was . . .”
His mouth twitches. “You were what?” He peels his sweater up and off his head, and all words die on my tongue.
I suck in a breath.
A shallow slice sits alongside his ribs. It’s angry and red and stitched poorly. A bruise is blossoming around it.
My stomach turns, and my mind does something traitorous.
It imagines my hands there.
Bandaging.
Touching.
Helping.
I clamp down on the thought so hard it feels like biting my own tongue.
Lorenzo presses the cloth to the wound, jaw flexing. He doesn’t flinch and doesn’t even make a sound. But of course, he doesn’t. The man is barely human.
“You’re going to reopen it,” I mutter, voice tight.
“Are you offering medical advice?”
“I’m offering basic logic.” I step closer, then stop, because closing the distance feels dangerous in a way I can’t name.
He reaches for the antiseptic. His fingers are steady, but there’s a faint tension in his wrist. Maybe it does hurt . . . and he’s just refusing to admit it.
My throat tightens around something I don’t want to feel. “Who did this?” I ask before I can stop myself.
His gaze goes flat. “Business.”
“That’s not an answer,” I snap, the same line I’ve used on him before. It tastes familiar. Bitter.
Lorenzo’s mouth curves faintly. “It’s the only one you get.”
I exhale sharply. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re very annoying?”
He drags the gauze across his skin, then tapes it down, movements precise. “A few times. But not for long . . .”
I ignore his comment, knowing very well that he’s trying to bait me into a conversation I don’t want to get into right now.
Instead, I continue watching him take care of himself. Something about his movements makes my chest ache.
I don’t want to know this version of him. Knowing will make me vulnerable, and I can’t afford vulnerability.
Lorenzo finishes taping the gauze, then places his sweater back on and straightens it.
For a second, he just stands there, breathing slowly, eyes locked on mine. It’s almost like he’s waiting for me to say something stupid. Which, in all fairness, will probably happen. I keep my mouth shut despite my heart banging against my ribs.
I force a laugh that comes out too thin. “Congratulations. You’re not dying.”