Page 43 of Betraying Family Vows

I look at him for a moment before I continue cleaning the wound.

He doesn't flinch this time. Just watches me with those ice-blue eyes, tracking my every movement.

I finish and apply a bandage, his eyes still following me. I work on cleaning the dried blood across his hairline thinking there's more cuts, but there's none.

"Okay, now you're looking at me like I'm going to stab you with the tweezers."

He smiles. "Wouldn't be the first time someone's tried."

"I'm not even going to ask," I say as I get fresh new gauze.

"Hold still," I say as I start dabbing the cut by his lips.

It's hard because I can't look away. And staring at his lips... well, it stirs things up in me, and I can't look into his eyes because that's just...

Damn, I'm too close to him. Should I back up? But that would be weird. I'm making it weird.

Jesus, I'm in my head.

I swallow.

I want to hate him.

I should hate him.

But sitting here with dawn approaching, patching up the man who just killed a bunch of people to keep us alive, I don't know what I feel anymore.

He saved me. I owe him this much.

"Your shirt's covered in blood. Do you have an extra one in your bag?"

He nods. "Yes."

"Okay, take your shirt off then," I say, then quickly add, "I need to check you."

He hesitates for a moment and then pulls the blood-stiffened fabric over his head.

I freeze.

It wasn't the blood or the bruises that stole my breath. It was the man beneath them.

Dimitri's body is all hard. Muscles carved from marble. A broad chest, defined abs, every inch of him built for power. His skin is covered in black ink.

I've seen them on his hands and forearm, but now I can't help but really take them in.

On the backs of his hands: wolves chasing prey.

His forearms, Greek, maybe Spartan warriors, shields up, swords drawn.

Across his chest, below a Greek god is a phrase inked in bold script.

ΜΟΛΩΝ ΛΑΒΕ.

His ribs and stomach are covered with daggers, coiled serpents, skulls, gods and goddesses. Just what you'd expect a dangerous Greek mobster to have.

And right over his throat, a Greek cross, almost out of place. Etched along its side, the name, Eleni.

I swallow hard, my hands hovering over his chest. The heat of his body radiates against my palms before I've even touched him.