How dare he?
Did he think his gifts would be enough to earn my forgiveness? Does he think I can be bought?
My anger has reached a ferocious boil when the front door finally opens around nine p.m. I snatch the box off the coffee table and storm into the foyer. The box is so big, I can hardly see around it, but I don’t need to.
“You’re out of your fucking mind if you think I’m ever going to wear this,” I snarl, hurling the open box and its contents at my husband.
Panties, bras, and negligees go flying through the air. The box clatters to the ground.
And that’s when I finally see him.
“Oh my God!”
Nero’s face is a mess of blood and bruises, and his half-buttoned white dress shirt is stained red. He takes a staggering step, collapses to his knees, and falls onto the pile of lingerie.
“Nero!” I drop beside him, cradling his head in my hands. His stubbled cheek is warm against my palm. “What happened?”
No response. He’s unconscious, having used his last ounce of strength to get here.
I glance up. The front door is open. I can walk right out if I want to.
But then I hear Nero’s pained moan, and my gaze drops back to him. How can I abandon him in this state?
God damn it.I can’t leave him like this.
With a shaking hand, I pull his phone from his pocket, retrieve the card I’d hidden in my sweatpants, and dial Doc’s number.
CHAPTER 8
BLAKE
Concussion. Split lip. Bruised ribs.
Someone used Nero as a human punching bag, but according to Doc, things could have been worse.
He cleans Nero up, stitches his wounds, and writes me a detailed list of care instructions. Then he shows me to a kitchen cabinet I hadn’t noticed that’s better stocked than a local pharmacy.
“This has everything Nero will possibly need,” Doc says, and I believe him. Who has this much medicine in their house?
Someone who needs it. Frequently.
Doc pats my shoulder. “He’s as strong as a bull, but call me if he gets worse.”
“What are the chances he’ll get worse?”
“Low. But he’ll be hurting when the painkillers wear off.”
“Sorry for ruining your evening.”
He smiles. “Don’t worry, I’m used to being on call at all times. If I’m lucky, I’ll make it back in time for my wife to give me a kiss at midnight.”
I spend all night by Nero’s side, pressing ice to various body parts. Worry buzzes beneath my skin every time he groans in his sleep or makes a low moan. Halfway through the night, I pass out on the bed beside him, and when I wake up in the morning a few hours later, he’s still out cold.
At five past seven, Nero’s phone starts buzzing on the nightstand.
My head is groggy as I reach over Nero and grab it.
The caller ID says it’s Alessio Ferraro.
