Page 211 of Bitter Poetry

I become aware of my body, of a pressure bearing me down, of a floaty, disconnected feeling that slowly releases me from its grip.

“Ignore your brother, Christian. I promise, I won’t ever slap you again?—”

“Don’t go making promises you can’t keep, babe.” What the fuck is wrong with my voice?

“Christian!”

I wince. Peeling my eyes open is a lot harder than I anticipate… and only one of them opens… I’m in a hospital. Carmela is clutching my hand on the left. Dante appears on my right side, his face tight and drawn.

I’m betting I look worse. “Why can’t I open one eye?” Nope, that croak is not me. There are cables and shit all over me and a drip in my arm.

“Don’t touch.” Dante takes my wrist before I can reach my eye. “It’s swollen. How are you feeling?”

“Like an elephant is sitting on my chest,” I say honestly. I squeeze weakly over Carmela’s hands where they’re clutching mine. “Please tell me we bagged the piece of shit.”

“Not exactly,” Dante says. “But the Russians did, and I’m working on a plan.”

CARMELA

Dante calls the doctor, who comes to check on Christian.

I’m anxious as hell. I can’t bear to let go of his hand even to let them check his vitals.

He seems normal… well, except for the mass bruising… and the voice that sounds like it’s being scraped from the bottom of a gravel pit.

Dante shoots a message to Leon. Then, when the doctor is done, Dante announces he needs to call Leon and steps outside, leaving me alone with Christian.

“Do you want a drink?” God, I sound like a robot.

“Yeah, please.”

My hands shake as I lift the little plastic cup with a straw to his lips.

He grimaces as he goes to take it from me.

“I can hold it?—”

“So can I,” he cuts me off.

He nearly spills it.

I feel fucking useless.

He glares at me as if this is my fault. I glare right back.

Then I burst into tears.

“Fuck!” he growls. He dumps the cup on the trolley and catches my wrist. The sudden movement must hurt him, and he hisses through his teeth.

I still instantly. “I’m sorry, Christian. This is all my fault, and I’m so fucking sorry. Tell me to get out! I deserve it.”

“I swear if I had the energy, I would put you over my knee and spank your ass,” he croaks.

I choke down a sob that’s half a laugh and lift my eyes to meet his. Looking at him breaks me—this is all down to me. The doctor says it’s nothing short of a miracle that he will recover.

His lips tug up. His fingers slide down from my wrist to capture mine, and he squeezes.

“I’m sorry for a lot of things I’ve done, too. Sorry I treated you like you were a bitch… I’m not sorry I fucked you, that goes without saying. Just as soon as I stop feeling like a train wreck, I’d like to fuck you again…” He grins. “And spank you, you definitely liked the sound of that. Anything else on your kinky list I should know about?”