I want him to be mine.
He pulls back, his breathing a little ragged. He rests his forehead against mine.
"Come on," he whispers. "Let's get you cleaned up."
He stands up and holds out a hand.
I take it, and he pulls me to my feet.
My legs are wobbly, and I stumble against him. He puts his arms around me, holding me steady. I rest my head against his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart.
"You okay?" he asks, a hint of amusement in his voice.
"I think you broke me," I say, my words muffled against his chest.
He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that I feel all the way to my toes. "I'll try to be more careful next time."
Next time.
The thought of a next time sends a thrill through me. A thrill of fear, and a thrill of something else, something that feels a lot like hope.
Chapter Twenty Seven
Adrian
The office looks better now, I note, as I watch Caterina sit behind her desk, which now faces the correct sight line.
The chair is positioned so Caterina can see the door without turning her head. The glass along the interior wall has been reinforced. The blind system is automatic now, tied into the office controls and my security panel.
The artwork that used to create a blind corner is gone, replaced by a narrow console table with a few tastefully decorative pieces sitting on it.
The room still looks like Caterina.
Elegant, curated, and expensive without screaming it.
Caterina has almost stopped complaining about it, too. But not quite.
I think she mostly does it for fun now, though. Which helps.
Right now, she is behind the desk, dark hair smooth over one shoulder, a fitted cream blouse tucked into dark green trousers, a gold pen in one hand while she listens to her personal admin, Oliver, run through the afternoon schedule.
The morning light catches her profile, the dark sweep of her lashes, the slight pursing of her lips when she hears something she does not like.
I stand near the interior wall where I can see the door, the windows, Oliver, and the faint reflection of the hallway in the polished surface of a framed photograph.
My side barely hurts today.
That is a lie.
But it’s nothing compared to what it did a month ago, and that is close enough. My side is healing. Not fast enough for my taste, but faster than predicted. Dr. Alfonsi cleared me for more movement last week with a list of restrictions I have followedclosely enough not to reopen anything and loosely enough to function as security.
The stitches are gone. The scar is ugly and fresh, still tight when I turn too quickly or lift too much weight. I can move without favoring it now, as long as I am careful. I can draw, pivot, drive, clear a room, and stand for long periods without looking like I am about to bleed through my shirt.
I can even train lightly, though the doctor would disagree with my definition of lightly if he knew.
He does not need to know.
Caterina knows.
