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I swallow. A shiver runs down my spine. The menace in his voice is a reminder of how his way of life is so different from mine. The confidence with which he speaks is also a turn on. I shouldn’t find the violence inherent in him so appealing, but my elevated breathing, the way my pulse flutters as he tucks my head under his chin, the moisture that laces the flesh between my legs—all of it, insists otherwise.
He shoulders his way inside a bathroom and comes to a stop in front of the sink. I try to pull away from him but he only tightens his grasp around me.
"Hush," he says in a voice that brooks no argument, "calm down first."
We stay that way for a few seconds, during which time I allow myself to relax in his embrace. Allow myself to rub my cheek against his shirt, to draw his musky, edgy scent into my lungs, and close my eyes and pretend it’s okay that a well-known Mafioso is comforting me after someone shot at me. Jesus, I was shot at.
"Feeling better?" his voice rumbles against my cheek.
I nod, and he lowers me onto the counter.
He peers into my face, then swears. "You’re still bleeding."
He grabs a fresh cloth, wets it under the tap, and presses it to my wound.
I wince and his jaw hardens further. He takes my hand and presses it against the washcloth. "Hold it there," he orders as he moves away. Every time he speaks, authority drips from him. It must be nice to know that whatever he says, us mere mortals will obey.
He reaches up and grabs a first-aid kit from the shelf above the sink, then shakes out cotton balls and a bottle of antiseptic. He moves to stand between my legs, and when I lower the washcloth, he presses the antiseptic-soaked cotton ball to the wound.
I hiss out a breath.
A pulse tics to life in his jaw and his features seem to grow stormier. His actions, however, grow gentler. He dabs at the blood, tosses away the bloodied cotton ball, repeats his action with the next, and with the next. When he’s finally satisfied, he places a bandage on the cut.
"There." He surveys his handiwork. "Does it hurt?"
"No," I say truthfully, "it’s just a surface cut."
"On your face." He scowls. "They hurt your face."
"Technically, I think I hurt it when you pushed me down and threw yourself on top of me and—"
He glares at me, and I forget my train of thought. My stomach twists.Bam-Bam-Bam,my heart collides with my ribcage. Wariness trickles down my spine. I lean back from him, trying to put distance between us. To my surprise, he steps back and I slide down to place my feet on the floor and straighten. Unfortunately, that also means my breasts brush his chest. Heat sluices through my veins and my breath catches.
Every muscle in his body seems to tense. The tendons of his throat move as he swallows. Is he as affected by my proximity as I am by his?
"How do you feel?" he growls.
"I am fine, really." I peer into his features. "You, however, seem agitated."
His lips firm and he wraps his fingers around my wrist. Goosebumps pop on my skin. Little frissons of sensations arrow out from the point of contact. "Wh-what are you doing?" I croak.
"Accompanying you back to the others."
Before I can protest, he’s turned and pushed open the doorway of the bathroom. He drags me along, and I could protest, but weariness grips me and I allow him to tug me along. We reach the living room, where the group of men I’d seen earlier are talking in low voices.
The doctor sees us and rushes forward. She surveys my forehead and nods, "Good job."
Seb grunts.
"Do you need a painkiller?" she asks.
"No," I say at the very same time that Seb snaps, "Yes."
She glances between us, then pulls out a pad from her handbag, writes out a prescription and hands it over to me. Before I can reach for it, jerkface here has snatched it from her and pocketed it.
"Hey," I scowl, "that’s my prescription."
He ignores me and nods in the doctor’s direction, "Thanks, I’ll take care of it."
