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By the time I head out to the garage where my car is parked, I’m irritable and ready to go home. I’m hungry, my hands are sore, and I can still feel the faint throb of arousal that’s persisted ever since Dante cornered me in the break room. I hate that I’m going to prove him right—that there’s no way I’mnotgoing to go home and get myself off, and there’s no way I’m going to be able to stop myself from thinking about him while I do it.
Or, more specifically, all of those things he whispered in my ear.
I walk all the way to the Chevelle, toss my bag in the backseat—and then turn to glance down to the ramp below me. I feel almost sure that I recognize the car there. It looks like one of the cars I admired in Dante’s garage.
Someone elsecouldhave a ‘69 Camaro. It’s not the rarest of cars. But as I stare at it, I can’t help the gut feeling I have that itisDante’s.
What that doesn’t explain is why it’s still here, if that’s true. He left the Night Orchid hours ago.
Is he planning to follow me home?
It’s a paranoid thought, I know. Dante hasn’t given me any indication that he’s a stalker, aside from showing up to my work and getting irrationally jealous after we had only spent one night together. Still, that doesn’t mean he’s a psychopath. Does it? There’s that and the fact that he’s the head of a mob. I have an idea of what kind of man can be something like that. The possessiveness, the belief that they’re owed whatever they want because of the power they wield. Dante has already shown that he wants my attention. He threatened and hurt Rico to get it. He showed up at my job to check on me. It’s not beyond the realm of possibility that he’s obsessed enough to wait here to follow me home—even if I feel like it’s impossible vanity to think I could entice him that much.
Well, if that’s what he’s thinking, he’s not getting away with it.
I slip one of my keys between my fingers, patting my pocket for my pepper spray, and stalk toward the Camaro. I’m not going to wait and find out if he’s really going to follow me; I’m going to put an end to this, once and for all. If it’s really Dante in the car, waiting on me, I’m going to give him another piece of my mind—
A foot away from the car, I see streaks of red on the concrete. Dark, smeared, splashed. All in one place, at first, and then in long swaths towards the Camaro, like a body being dragged—or dragging itself. My heart skips in my chest, my gut tightening, and I almost turn to leave. This is something else. Something I don’t need to be caught up in.
But I keep moving forward, almost against my own will, until I’m looking in the driver’s side window of the Camaro.
“Fuck!” I gasp the word aloud, my hand coming up to cover my mouth. Every thought I had about possibly being stalked flies out of my head, because while Danteisin the car, it’s nothing like I thought.
He’s slumped over the center console, either unconscious or nearly there. His face is bruised, purpling, and his nose swollen. Blood is dripping down his lips and chin, his eyes swollen shut. I can’t tell if anything else is wrong, but it’s clear that he’s gravely injured.
The moment I see him like that, it’s as if every thought flies out of my head. All I can think about is getting to him.
I snatch the door open, reaching for him before I can stop myself, my hand sliding around the back of his head as I try to lift it. I need to know that he’s awake, that he’s breathing. “Dante?” His name escapes me on a gasp, my gaze flitting over his battered face. It’s all too much to take in, and my pulse races as I try to determine just how badly injured he is. “Dante!”
He moans a low,pained sound, but says nothing. It almost looks as if he tries to open his eyes, and can’t, but I’m not sure.
“Dante—”
Another moan, and a panicked feeling sweeps through me. I don’t know what to do. I can’t leave him here like this.
Even if helping him might add more trouble to my already complicated life.
Maybe it’s not that bad,I tell myself, as I try to figure out what to do.Maybe he was mugged. It happens.But even I can see that the violence of this is outside what a normal big-city robbery entails. Not to mention—if the people who did this were simply thieves, why didn’t they take his car? If they knew someone with a decent chop shop, they could make a lot of money off of what Dante is driving.
There’s no way he’s driving himself to the hospital. And there’s no way I can maneuver him into the passenger’s side from the side I’m on. I bite my lip, reaching into Dante’s pocket to fish out his keys. I hear him mumble something through his injured lips as I take them out, but I can’t make out what it might be.
“Don’t try to say anything.” I circle around the car, opening the passenger’s side. “I’m sorry, this is probably going to hurt—”
Dante is a tall man, a good bit heavier than I am, and half-unconscious he’s almost impossible for me to move. I hook my hands under his armpits, trying to haul him back into the passenger’s seat. It means I have to drag him across, and I hear his pained groans as I try to move him to where he’s mostly in the seat. My hands are covered in blood by the time I manage it, and as I close the door, I look down at them, feeling vaguely nauseous. I would have thought, being a tattoo artist, I wouldn’t be disturbed by blood. But this is an entirely different kind of blood.
Dante is slumped against the door when I slide into the driver’s seat, his eyelids fluttering. “I’m going to take you to the hospital,” I tell him firmly as I start the engine. “You’ll get patched up in no time—”
“Nnn—no.” The word comes out mumbled, but it’s clear enough, even if it sounds as if it took all of his energy to manage it.
“Dante.” I look at him, struggling between shock and exasperation. “Where else are you going to go? You’rehurt. I’m taking you to the hospital.”
I start to put the car in gear, but his hand flails out, nearly slapping mine away from the gearshift. “Nno,” he manages again, more firmly this time, and I grit my teeth.
“Dante—”
“Take—mmee—home.” The words are still garbled, and I feel my chest constrict, hearing him. All I can think of is his low, seductive voice whispering in my ear as he laid me back on his couch, that rich, faint accent, the way he murmured things that made me shiver and blush all over. Just a few hours ago, he’d done the same thing in the break room at the shop. Hearing him now makes me feel almost as if I want to burst into tears.
“You’re in no shape to go home—”
