Page 8 of The Beast Who Begged Me

I shake my head, unwilling to use my voice after the doctor advised I should avoid talking too much. Smoke inhalation, combined with having a tube shoved down to help me breathe while I was sedated, means my throat has had a rough time.

But Dami hurries over when I tug back the covers. He watches me closely as I swing my legs out and let my toes touch the floor. And when I try and fail twice to stand—my legs feel wobbly—he can’t stop himself.

“Be sensible,” he snaps, and slides an arm around my waist to heave me up.

Being so close to him again, so suddenly, is overwhelming.

“You okay?” he demands, as I sag into him.

I just nod. Even if I had my voice, I wouldn’t be in a state to tell him being close to him is what’s making me dizzy. His warmth. His strength. And his smell, which is considerably nicer than mine right now.

In the bathroom the light is crueler, and what it shows me spikes fear. I reach up and touch below his swollen eye, and he lets me, quivering under my fingers like a wild animal permitting a human to approach with caution.

What happened? I mouth.

When I try to take his hand, the one with the bandage, he pulls it away. “Let’s get you washed down, and then we can…talk.”

First I take a long, euphoric piss, not even caring that Dami is standing right there watching. He’s seen me in every state, after all.

Cared for me in every state.

Sammy is okay. That’s what I’ve gathered so far. He ran off, but he must have come back. That doesn’t explain Dami’s injuries, but when I reach again for his face, he just catches my wrist and turns me like we’re dancing, to deposit me on the small bench in the shower.

I reach out for him.

He doesn’t hesitate. He strips down, and the sight of the rest of him takes my breath away like usual—but for entirely the wrong reason. His face is only half the story. He’s covered in cuts and bruises. I stab an insistent finger at him, but he just nods. “I got checked out. No internal bleeding. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

Internal bleeding?

He must see the alarm in my face, because he steps into the shower and takes my face in his hand. “The only thing you gotta focus on right now,” he says, looking down at me, “is you. Sammy’s safe. Rosa and Vito are safe. And you—” He cuts off so suddenly I blink at him. “I’m never leaving you the fuck alone again,” he finishes roughly.

I’m back on my feet before I know it, my arms around his neck, clinging tight. And his arms surround me, holding me safe and secure.

I’ve watched enough things burn.

The letter, and the fallout from it, can wait.

CHAPTER 4

DAMIANO

I sit on the tiled bench in the shower and pull him into my lap, settling him with his back against my chest beneath a warm, trickling run from the shower. I’m still worried about him. Worried about it all: the fire, his injuries, the Mob War brewing over us…

But all I want to do is put my hands on him. Slide up his side, trace the ridge of a rib, dive into his soaked hair, until everything narrows down to him.

This is all that matters.

He’s a warm weight on my thighs, his legs splayed over mine. God, he’s light. Was he always this light? Rosa’s right. He needs to eat more.

I keep my bandaged arm around his waist and work shampoo through his hair with my other hand. The gauze is getting wet. I was told to keep it dry, but I don’t give a fuck.

I don’t know what’s left of the tattoo beneath it. I hope it’s fucking destroyed.

It takes three washes before the smoky stink is gone from his hair. He lets me do it, pliant and patient, while I wonder about him. About me.

About us.

I need to step up, like Fontana challenged me to do. But I don’t know how.