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“Em–ma.”
The way he finally says my name, as if he’s pleading with me to understand even though he can’t explain further, is what ultimately makes me give in. But I can’t fathom taking him back to his penthouse. I look at my bloodied hands gripping the steering wheel, and all I can think is that his security is likely going to decide this is somehow my fault. This feels like walking into a lion’s den with the leader’s wounded body and no way to explain what happened. I have no doubt that once Dante recovers, he will make it clear that none of this was my fault—but I don’t want to deal with what happens in the interim.
“Fine,” I grit out. “I won’t take you to the hospital. But I’m taking you back to my place instead.”
There’s no sound, and I glance sideways to see that he’s fully passed out. For a moment, I consider ignoring his wishes and taking him to the hospital anyway, since he’s no longer conscious to protest.
But some gut instinct tells me that his objections were more than just the complaints of a man who doesn’t like hospitals. There’s a deeper reason that he doesn’t want to go.
I put the car in gear and pull out of the parking garage, careful to obey all the traffic laws. The last thing I need is to get pulled over with a bloody, unconscious man in the passenger’s seat of a car that doesn’t belong to me, that I certainly shouldn’t be driving.
I’m tense the entire drive back to my apartment, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles are white. I hated leavingmycar back there in the garage—I’m worried I’ll come back to find it broken into or worse—but I don’t know what else I could have done. I certainly wouldn’t have been able to get Dante out of his car and into mine.
Which raises another problem—getting him up to my condo. Especially without anyone else seeing.
I pull into the closest parking spot I can find, looking over at him. I reach for one shoulder, shaking him as gently as I can manage. “Dante.Dante.” I hiss his name. “If I’m not taking you to the hospital, then Ineedyou to wake up. Just enough for me to get you upstairs.”
Nothing. I blow out a sharp breath between pursed lips. “Dante—” I shake him again, a little harder. I don’t want to hurt him even more, but there’s no way I can get an adult man up three flights of stairs under my own power. And the elevator in the building is usually broken. Additionally, I don’t know the extent of the injuries he sustained—but I do know enough to know that if he has a concussion, he needs to stay awake.
I get out of the Camaro, racing through every possibility for how to deal with the situation as I circle around to the passenger’s side. I open the door just a little, not wanting him to fall out, and try to support his weight as I open it the rest of the way. His nose is still trickling blood, and I grit my teeth.I should have taken him to the hospital.
I’m tempted to close the door and do exactly that. But instead, I lift him as much as possible, starting to try to haul him out of the car.
Fortunately, the movement seems to wake him up, just a little. He lets out another pained moan, slumping against me.
“Dante? Dante, I need you to try to walk. Just a little. Then we’ll be upstairs, and you can rest. Please?” There’s a pleading note in my voice that I haven’t heard in a long time, and the memories it brings back are painful enough to make tears burn at the back of my eyelids. “Please, help me get you upstairs.”
If he can’t, I have a feeling we’re both going to end up in a heap here on the sidewalk until someone else comes to help.
I’m not sure if it’s the pain of the movement or my pleading, but I feel him starting to try to walk. I put one of his arms over my shoulders and wrap another around his waist as we begin to hobble towards the door. I feel an odd sensation of protectiveness. It’s a strange feeling—I would never think that a man like Dante would needmeto protect him. But right now, it feels as if he’s depending entirely on me.
It’s something I’ll have to examine more closely later, when I’m not desperately trying to get him upstairs before he passes out again.
It’s an excruciatingly slow process, and I’m both streaked with blood and sure that I’ll be sore for a week by the time we get to my door, but I manage to get Dante upstairs. We have to take more than one break on the way up, and I’m constantly on edge, waiting for someone to come out of their condo, see us, and start asking questions—or call the police. But it’s late enough that no one emerges, and I fumble in my pocket for my keys, unlocking my front door and getting us both across the threshold.
I get him into my small bathroom, and I can tell he’s on the verge of passing out again. I start to see if he can lean against the counter while I get the shower heating up, but I feel sure just looking at him that he’s going to end up on the floor if I do. So instead, I maneuver him into the shower fully clothed, helping him lean back against the wall while I tilt the showerhead away and turn the water on, so the cold water won’t hit him.
It feels like an out-of-body experience, like I’m watching myself go through the motions of a situation that I would never have expected to find myself in. I strip off my bloodied tank top and jeans, tossing them on the floor, and then crouch down on the wet tiles in my underwear, starting to help him out of the hoodie he has on before starting on the rest of his clothes.
It’s also oddly intimate, undressing him like this. He groans as I tug off his t-shirt, and I wince as I see the bruises spreading across his ribs and stomach. Someone—or multiple someones, maybe—did more than just hit him a few times. I’m not at all sure that he might not have cracked or broken ribs, and that feeling that this was something more than just a mugging comes back.
I don’t know much about these kinds of things, but the injuries look bad enough that they seem personal.
He lets out another low moan as I start to undo his jeans, and I feel a shiver go down my spine. Under other circumstances, hearing that sound from him while I undress him would be entirely different. It still tightens something low in my belly, makes me think of how it made me feel when he pressed me up against the door in the break room, how Iwantedhim to make good on all those filthy things he was whispering in my ear.
This man is terrible for my self-control.
“Help me out here, Dante,” I murmur, trying to get his jeans down over his hips, along with his boxers. I have a feeling his clothes are mostly ruined now—as are mine—but I manage to get them off, leaving them in a sodden pile on my bathroom floor along with my clothes.
The water is warm by now, and I adjust the showerhead again, reaching for a washcloth. Gently, I reach for his face, crouching down between his legs as I start to wipe away the blood and try to see where the worst of the injuries are. His nose looks like it might be broken, and I have no idea what to do about that. If it sets wrong, then he’ll have problems with it—but I don’t think I can do that myself.
Truthfully, I don’t think I’m equipped to doanyof this myself.
His swollen eyes flutter open, just a little, as I start to wipe the blood away from his face. I see his gaze slowly slide over me, and the smallest upwards crook of his split lips.
“You—look—good.” The words come out slurred, but I can hear the attempt at humor in them. “Really—clean up…nice.”
“Don’t talk.” I level as much of a glare at him as I can, considering the fact that my heart is racing in my chest, both from nerves and the close proximity to him. Even with him battered and bruised in my shower, it seems that my body hasn’t forgotten what we did together, or how good it made me feel. “Just let me cleanyouup, okay?”
