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I twist my mother's ring nervously, suddenly aware of how up close we'll need to be for me to treat him properly.
"The water's boiling," Alessio says, his voice pulling me back to reality.
I blink, realizing I've been staring. Heat rushes to my cheeks as I turn quickly to the hot plate, grateful for the excuse to look away.
"Right," I manage, my voice steadier than I feel. "Let's get you cleaned up."
CHAPTER 15
Iwatch Melania organize the supplies with surprising efficiency. She's not squeamish around blood—interesting.
"Sit," she commands, leaving no room for argument.
I comply, lowering myself onto a rickety chair while she remains standing. The position puts her in control, looking down at me—a reversal of our usual dynamic that I should hate. I don't.
She steps between my legs, close enough that her scent fills my senses. The towel dips into the hot water and she wrings it out with delicate fingers before pressing it to my arm.
"This might sting," she warns, but her touch is gentle as she cleans away the dried blood.
I don't flinch. Pain is an old friend. What's new is the careful way she tends to me, like I'm something worth preserving.
"You've done this before," I observe, eyeing her methodical movements.
"Basic first aid was part of my computer science program," she explains, her eyes never leaving my wound. "They said we might have to work with sensitive equipment in remote locations."
I doubt they meant bullet wounds, but I don't say it.
Her face hovers inches from mine as she works, completely focused on her task. No disgust, no trepidation—just concentration. The single bulb casts shadows across her features, highlighting the curve of her cheekbone, the fullness of her lips. Her hair falls forward, and she absently pushes it back with her wrist, careful to keep her bloodied fingers away from her face.
Fuck, she's beautiful.
Not in the manufactured way of the women who circle Damiano's clubs—all silicone and calculated seduction. Melania's beauty is unintentional, almost accidental. I love the slight furrow between her brows as she concentrates.
Her fingertips brush my skin as she applies antiseptic and I suppress a shiver that has nothing to do with pain. She's standing between my spread legs, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her body. Close like we were earlier, when the alarm interrupted whatever the fuck was happening between us.
"You're not what I expected," I say, my voice rougher than intended.
Her eyes flick up to mine briefly before returning to her work. "What did you expect? A spoiled princess who'd fall apart at the first sign of blood?"
"Something like that."
The corner of her mouth quirks up. "Sorry to disappoint."
"I didn't say I was disappointed."
Her hands pause for a fraction of a second before resuming their gentle ministrations. She's wrapping gauze around my arm now, her fingers working with surprising dexterity.
"There," she says finally, securing the bandage with medical tape. "Not hospital-grade but it should hold until we can get you proper treatment."
She doesn't step back immediately. We're frozen in this strange intimacy—her standing between my thighs, her hands still resting lightly on my arm, my face tilted up to hers, hers down to mine.
I watch her eyes flicker with something—awareness, maybe, of the intimacy—before she takes two deliberate steps back, creating distance between us. The absence of her warmth is immediate.
"We should rest," she says. "It's been a long day."
"You hungry?" I ask, reaching for my shirt. The fabric slides over my skin, hiding the scars she'd been so careful not to stare at. "There must be something here to fill our stomachs with."
I stand and move toward the makeshift kitchen area, my arm throbbing dully beneath her neat bandaging. The cupboards yield a few canned goods—soup, beans, tuna. Nothing like the carbonara we shared earlier, but it'll keep us alive.