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“I need to shower.” I lick my dry lips, and I see his gaze instantly flick to my mouth. “And I should check that cut on your side—”
“I have a doctor who makes house calls.” Dante starts to push himself up, his face tightening with pain as he does so. “I’m sure she’ll be more than happy to come by, just as soon as I give her a call.”
I feel an irrational spark of jealousy at the thought of another woman tending to him—which is utterly ridiculous. I have no claim on him; I’ve repeatedly told myself that I don’twanta claim on him—and the woman in question is his fucking doctor. But something about the idea of someone else touching him makes me momentarily seethe.
Awfully hypocritical, considering how upset I was that he walked into my shop and got jealous over Brendan.
“Did you—” Dante hesitates. “I don’t precisely remember how I got here last night.”
I feel my cheeks flush a little more. “I drove your car,” I admit. “I hope that’s alright. I could barely get you into the passenger’s seat—there was no way I was getting you out of your car and into mine.” It hadn’t occurred to me at the moment, with so much else going on, that he might be upset at me for making that decision. “I was going to take you straight to the hospital, but you were so insistent—”
Dante’s mouth twitches. “Hospitals usually aren’t the best place for someone like me to go. Especially not after an incident like that. Better to keep it in-house. Although surely I would have told you to take me home?”
I press my lips together. “You did,” I admit. “But I wasn’t sure if—I thought your security might blame me if they saw me driving up in your car, your blood on me, and you passed out…” I swallow hard. “I wasn’t sure how they’d react. So I brought you here.”
Dante chuckles. “You’re lucky none of them tracked you here. I’m sure all my men are frantic by now. I should check in—honestly, I should have done that as soon as I woke up.”
I feel a flush of warmth, realizing what he means by that—that he was so distracted by me that he forgot to straighten out the problems that might be going on for him back at home. “What happened?” I ask him bluntly, as much to distract myself from the tangle of confusing feelings as anything else. “There was blood in the parking garage, and when I saw you—”
I break off, hating the way my voice starts to crack on the last words. I keep trying to tell myself that I don’t care all that much about this man, but my reactions are all wrong.It’s the grief,I tell myself.You haven’t bounced back yet, not completely. Of course, you haven’t. And all of this is making things resurface.
I can’t stop thinking of how battered Dante looked, the swollen features of his face, the bruises that I revealed when I pulled off his clothes. They look stark and ugly in the daylight as he lies there talking to me, casually naked—like they don’t belong on him. Nothing like that could ever belong on a man as handsome as he is.
His eyes are still puffy and bruised, his lips swollen, but his face looks better than it did last night. Still, I want to know what caused this. I want him to reassure me that it was nothing that mattered. That it wasn’t anything that could come back to haunt either of us.
Dante lets out a sharp breath, his gaze narrowing, becoming more withdrawn. I know at that moment that I’m not going to get the reassurance I want.
“Business,” he says finally. “Nothing that you need to worry about, Emma.”
I sit up, wrapping my arms around myself. “Nothing I need to worry about?” I repeat, more sharply than I intended. “I find you—my client—bleeding and half-unconscious steps away from my car, a block away from my shop, and it’s nothing I need to worry about? I’m going to need you to rethink that statement, because—”
“It’s complicated.” Dante runs a hand through his hair, a frustrated expression tightening his features. “But I would never allow you to be in any danger, Emma. I—”
“How are you going to accomplish that? I’m your tattoo artist. Someone could see me coming and going from your home. Someone might have seen you stop by my shop. It’s easy to put two and two together. Then, if they want information about you—” My mind is racing, going over every true crime show and episode of SVU that I’ve ever seen. I’ve never regretted letting Rico strong-arm me into taking that first session with Dante so much, and yet—
If I hadn’t…
I can’t help but think of what I would have missed out on. I’m still tingling with the aftershocks of the pleasure we just shared, and as much as I tell myself it won’t happen again, I’m not entirely sure that’s true. I don’t seem to be able to avoid temptation when it comes to him. I can tell myself that I’ll try, but I can’t say with any certainty that my resolve will hold. I’d just be lying to myself if I did.
“I could give you security, while you’re working for me, if you’re that worried—” Dante trails off, seeing the expression on my face.
“Absolutely not.” I shake my head firmly. “You might be happy, living that sort of life, but I wouldn’t be. Not at all. I don’t want someone watching me, tailing me—”
“I get it.” Dante runs a hand through his hair again. “You shouldn’t be in any danger, Emma. The person behind this—he’s got problems with me and mine, not with you. It’s not something you need to be worried about, I promise you.”
I feel an irrational sting of hurt.Me and mine.I’m not his—and I’ve done my best to make it clear that I have no desire to be. So why does his dismissal of me as someone close enough to him to be a target send a pang through my chest? It should be a good thing.
“I’m going to take a shower.” I swallow back the lump in my throat, swinging my legs off of the bed. Some distance between us ought to be enough to cool off the churning feeling in my stomach. “And I’ll make us some breakfast after that. We can figure out getting you home once we’re cleaned up and fed.”
There’s a glimpse of an amused look on Dante’s face, and I can guess why—I imagine it’s not every day he wakes up with a woman who starts givinghimdirections. But I’m too flustered and confused to worry about his sensibilities.
What I need right now is space.
I get up, making my way to the bathroom without a backward glance. Iwantto take one more look at him, stretched out naked atop my bed, but I force myself not to. If I do, I might end up back there with him, and that’s not what either of us needs.
The pile of clothes on the bathroom floor is just another reminder of last night, and all the new worries that I have to contend with. I fill the sink with water, putting my bloodied tank top and jeans in there to soak—I have a feeling it’s a hopeless cause, but I can’t afford to just toss out clothes without at least trying to salvage them. I imagine Dante will just throw his away.
The moment I step under the hot spray of the shower, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Here, isolated away from everything else happening, I feel myself relax a little at a time, closing my eyes and tipping my head back under the water.It’s going to be okay,I tell myself.No one cares about who his tattoo artist is. You’re overreacting.
