Chapter 8 - The Flesh and the Blood
Alessandro's private master suite was vast, dark, and smelled of cedar, old leather, and rain.
I stood in his private bathroom, surrounded by black marble and silver fixtures, washing my hands with surgical soap before pulling out gauze, antiseptic, and medical shears from his emergency supply cabinet.
When I walked into the bedroom, Alessandro was sitting on the edge of his massive leather-framed bed.
He had removed his shirt.
My breath caught in my throat.
His body was broad, powerful, sculpted from muscle, but crisscrossed with old scars—thin white lines across his ribs, a jagged mark on his chest, and now, a deep, jagged crimson trench running across the top of his left shoulder where a rifle bullet had torn through his skin.
I knelt beside him on the bed, setting the tray of supplies on the nightstand.
"This is going to hurt," I warned softly, soaking a clean cotton pad in antiseptic solution.
"Do it," Alessandro said quietly.
I pressed the wet pad against the torn flesh.
Alessandro's entire body went rigid. A low, sharp gasp escaped his teeth, his massive hand shooting out to grip the wooden edge of the nightstand so hard the mahogany groaned under the pressure. A vein throbbed violently along his neck.
"Hold still," I whispered, my fingers surprisingly steady as I cleaned away the blood, dirt, and rain from the wound.
I was standing close to him—so close I could feel the intense heat radiating from his skin, so close I could hear the heavy, ragged sound of his breathing. My face was inches from his collarbone.
"You should have worn a vest," I said softly, applying antibacterial salve to a sterile gauze pad.
"Vests don't protect against rifles, Clara," Alessandro said, his voice low, strained with pain.
"Then you shouldn't have been near the bridge," I replied, carefully laying the gauze over his shoulder and wrapping a white tension bandage around his broad chest.
As I reached around his back to secure the tape, my chest brushed lightly against his arm.
Alessandro turned his head.
His face was three inches from mine.
In the quiet, dim light of the bedroom, his dark eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made the rest of the world vanish. I could see the gold flecks in his dark irises, the wet dark hair clinging to his forehead, the sharp, dangerous curve of his lips.
My hands froze on his chest, resting against his bare skin, right over his beating heart.
It was hammering—fast, heavy, erratic.
"You're shaking," Alessandro whispered, his right hand rising slowly, his long, warm fingers coming to rest gently against the side of my neck, his thumb tracing the racing pulse beneath my jaw.
"I'm not shaking," I lied, my voice barely a breath.
"You're terrified of me," he murmured, his face leaning closer, his warm breath fanning across my lips.
"I am not terrified of you, Alessandro Romano," I whispered, looking directly into his eyes, refusing to pull away. "I have never been terrified of you."
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Alessandro closed his eyes for a split second, a low, tortured sound rumbling in his chest.
Then his hand moved from my neck to the back of my head, pulling me forward, and his lips came down onto mine.
