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Dante doesn’t reply to that, but I think I still see that small hint of a smile on his mouth.
It takes forever to survey the extent of his injuries. The most worrisome thing, beyond the possibility of his ribs being cracked or worse, is the slash that I find on his left side that looks like someone tried to stab him. It’s the only open wound I find besides his bleeding nose and the splitting in his lips, but it’s clear that what happened could have been so much worse. It’s also clear that the wound could benefit from stitches—which can only happen if he goes to the hospital.
Something he’s made it very clear he’s not willing to do.
“I’m going to have to try to close this up.” I clean the gash as well as I can, gritting my teeth every time he makes a pained sound. Ihatehurting him—he’s made my life more complicated and caused me an immense amount of frustration in the brief time that I’ve known him, but that doesn’t mean I like seeing him hurt.
Especially not when I remember all too well how good we can make each other feel.
The water is starting to cool by the time I get all the blood and grime washed away. I turn it off, stripping off the remainder of my now-soaked bra and panties, and leave the clothes in a pile on the floor. I can deal with that later—right now, I have to manage that wound, and get Dante into bed.
I grab my robe off of the hook on the wall, wrapping it around myself, and digging for a first-aid kit under the sink.Thisisn’t at all what I was imagining when I bought one and stashed it—I’d been picturing burns from bacon grease or my father smashing his thumb with a hammer while fixing something in the house—but I’m grateful to have it. I take it back to the shower, taking out the butterfly tape and peering more closely at what I think must be a knife wound.
“This is going to hurt,” I warn Dante, opening an alcohol pad. I can’t imagine how much, but I see his mouth twitch again as his eyes open the smallest bit.
“I’ll—be—fine,” he manages, and then his head lolls back against the tiled wall again.
This is either going to wake him up or make him pass out completely.I grit my teeth, swiping the soaked pad over the length of the wound. I don’t bother trying to be slow and gentle with this—I think this is one of those things that’s better done quickly, like ripping off a bandaid.
Dante groans, his eyes opening a bit more, and his abdomen tightens and spasms as I swipe the pad over the wound once more. I toss it aside, wincing as I lean forward and start to pinch the flesh closed an inch at a time, closing the gap with the butterfly tape. It’s the closest thing to stitches I can manage.
“You’re going to have a scar,” I tell him flatly, as I finish. “If you’d let me take you to the hospital, you probably wouldn’t. But—” I look up at him, shrugging. “You were so insistent; how could I tell you no?”
That damn smirk again, twitching at the corners of his mouth, in a circumstance that I can’t imagine how he’s finding anything funny. “That’s—sexy—right?” The words are a little garbled, but I understand what he’s saying just fine. “Scars?”
“Sure,” I tell him flatly, but the truth is that he’s not wrong. There’s definitely something a little sexy about scars on a man like Dante. I just wish I had a better idea of the circumstances that got him this one.
Like, for instance, if I need to worry about anyone following him here to my house.
Maybe it would have been a better idea to take him back to his place.It’s too late to change that decision now, but I’m starting to grasp what might be the full consequences of this—what I might have gotten myself mixed up in.
Or maybegraspisn’t the right word. More that my imagination is going wild, with nothing to really grab onto at the moment with any certainty.
I close the first aid kit, set it on the counter, and grab a towel to dry Dante off with. Another sharp pang of remembered hurt jolts through me, and I try to push it away.
I’ve spent the last six months trying not to think about how it felt to care for my father while he was dying, how helpless I felt so much of the time, how crushing the weight of having someone depend entirely on me could be. I wasn’t used to being the sole provider for our family, to go from helping to take care of our little two-person household to coming home every night wondering what had worsened in my absence. Every time I left for work, I wondered if I’d get a call that he was back in the hospital, or worse.
My feelings for Dante are much different, of course, and much more complicated. But the remembered grief comes back to me as I dry him off, helping him to his feet. I know part of the urge to help him, to make sure nothing happens to him, comes from that lingerie grief.
I’m acutely aware of his nakedness as I help him out of the bathroom and into my bedroom—into my bed. I can’t help but think of what other circumstances might have brought him here—or wonder what he’s going to think of my home, once he finally wakes up enough to know where he is and what’s happening.
“I don’t know if you should be sleeping,” I tell him quietly as I help him lay down atop the blankets, finding a soft throw blanket to cover him up with. “But I don’t think I’m going to be able to stop you.”
I keep a pitcher of water and a glass by the bed, and I fill it halfway, sliding one hand under his head and lifting it a little as I raise the glass to his cracked lips. Dante makes a muted sound of pleasure as he sips the water, his eyes still mostly closed, and I feel that odd sense of protectiveness sweep through me again.
How is he going to feel about all of this when he wakes up?I don’t know, but I hope he has answers for me. At leastsomething.
Exhaustion sweeps over me as I set the glass aside, and I grab a pair of pajama pants and a tank top out of my dresser, numbly sliding them on. I feel like I should try to stay awake—keep an eye on him, make sure nothing else happens to worsen his condition during the night—but I don’t think I’m going to be able to. My eyelids feel heavy, the stress and tension taking its toll, and I slide under the covers on the other side of Dante.
I hadn’t planned on spending a night with him. If Ihad, these certainly wouldn’t be the circumstances that I imagined. But I don’t have much time to think about it before sleep washes over me, and I’m insensible to anything else.
11
EMMA
When I wake up, the sunlight is streaming through the bedroom windows, and I have no idea what time it is. For a moment, I don’t remember anything that happened last night—I don’t even realize Dante is in my bed at first—and then I register the presence of someone else in my bed and come fully awake with a jolt.
His eyes are half-lidded, and he turns his head slightly as I push myself up on one elbow.
