Page 12 of Brutal Heir (Ruthless Heirs #3)

BATH TIME

A lessandro

The scent of roasted meat and vegetables lingers across the great divide of the dining room table. Normally, I’d never eat in the fancy room by myself but with my new live-in guest taking over the kitchen island, I was forced to eat in here alone or in there with her .

I will never admit it to Rory, but the meal Mrs. Jenkins crafted at her specifications was delicious.

I’m no stranger to a high-protein diet. Before everything went to hell, I used to work out daily.

I even have a home gym in one of the spare bedrooms. But that was when I cared about what my body looked like.

Now, I just want to keep the savage landscape hidden from prying eyes.

Rory appears around the corner, her wild auburn hair in a messy bun atop her head.

Something that looks a lot like a thin dagger is speared through the tangle of curls.

She’s wearing a tight t-shirt with the words “Don’t Make Me Use My Nurse Voice” stamped across her chest. I barely hold back the smile, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction.

What the hell were Serena and Bella thinking when they found this wildling?

Which reminds me, I owe my meddling cousins major payback.

Luckily, I’ll get to see them both this week at Serena’s engagement party. I was planning on coming up with some sort of an excuse not to attend, but now, I have a bone to pick.

“Are you all finished with your supper?” She peers across the table at the empty dish triumphantly.

Like I’ll give her the pleasure of my praises. “Are you going to clear away my plate?”

“Do I look like your maid?” She flashes me a sneer. “You’ve got hands, use them.”

I don’t bring up the fact that my right hand was badly burned and still hurts like hell. It took me weeks to be able to write again. Instead, I huff out a resigned breath and pick up my plate before pushing myself up from the high-backed chair.

Mrs. Jenkins has already gone home for the evening, leaving me alone with the little tyrant. I’ve stalled all day, avoided it as much as possible, but I can see the gleam in her eyes. It’s time for the dreaded bath.

As I round the kitchen, I’m already regretting the promise I made yesterday in a rush to get her out of my bedroom. Why did I think I would be ready for her to see me, the real me, scars and all, so soon?

Because she’s your nurse, you idiot . This time the voice in my head sounds a hell of a lot like my sister’s. She tried to come over this afternoon, but physical therapy days leave me exhausted and cranky as shit.

Dealing with one feisty woman is more than enough. I didn’t need my twin here too.

As I place the plates in the dishwasher at a snail’s pace, I can feel Rory’s gaze heavy on me.

Can she see how painful this simple household chore is?

Feel the strain in my shoulders, see the grinding of my teeth?

Dio , I hate letting anyone see this weak side of me, and now, in a moment she will see me at my worst.

Completely bare. All my monstrous scars out in the open.

“Hurry up, slow poke.” This woman is much too perky, leaning against the marble island watching me. She cannot actually be looking forward to this, can she? She’s a total masochist. “It’s bath time!”

I half expect her to break into a damned jig at my discomfort.

She probably can’t wait to see the formidable Rossi heir, once a god, now fallen from grace.

As I straighten, I meet that determined gaze and mentally chastise myself.

Dio , how conceited am I? Rory may be infuriating and have a shitty opinion of me, but she’s certainly not the incompetent nurse I hoped she’d be.

Earlier today at physical therapy, Max couldn’t stop complimenting her as she gushed about the new routine she had mapped out for me. Can’t wait to start that torture … Clearly, she knows what she’s talking about and does seem to care about the job.

But that doesn’t mean she’s the right fit for me.

“Come on, Alessandro.” She pushes off the marble island and offers a hand, a hint of pity in her gaze. “The longer you put it off the more painful it’ll be for both of us.”

My eyes snap in her direction. “Don’t look at me like that,” I growl, gripping the edge of the counter.

“I didn’t ask for you to be here.” The moment the harsh words are out I regret them.

I didn’t mean to bark at her. It was just an instinctual response, like a cornered animal.

Taking a breath to deflate the mounting anger, I modify my tone and ask, “Why would it be painful for you?”

Rory shrugs, and I can practically see the snarky comment perched on her tongue. But somehow, she swallows it down. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull back. She just steps closer, hand still extended like she’s not afraid I’ll bite it off.

Her voice is soft, but steady. “Because I hate watching people suffer when I know I can help.”

She holds my gaze, eyes bright and unwavering. “And believe it or not, beneath all your grumbling and growling, I can see how much it hurts. You might not have asked for help, Alessandro, but you damn well need it. So stop being a stubborn eejit and let me do my job.”

Her hand wiggles slightly between us, a silent dare. “Come on, before I start charging hazard pay.”

With a rueful smile, I extend my hand, wrapping my fingers around her small palm. How could someone so tiny and seemingly breakable be so fierce? And me, at six-foot three, two-hundred pounds, I’m completely wrecked.

She leads me to the bathroom, my footsteps dragging like a prisoner on death row. When we finally reach my bedroom, I pause at the door, my bare feet rooted to the spot.

I pull my hand free of hers, the moment of vulnerability gone now that the dreaded time has come. “I need a minute.”

“Okay. I’ll be here when you’re ready. But don’t take too long. I already filled the tub, and I don’t want it to get cold.”

When did she do that, while I was eating? The woman has been planning this moment all night, hasn’t she?

I dart into the bathroom, the door slamming behind me like a gunshot. I brace my palms against the cold marble sink, arms shaking beneath the weight of fear and fury, and something else I can’t fucking name.

Why the hell does she get under my skin like this? She’s just a nurse, just like Gwen. I let her see me naked dozens of times. The fact that she was nearly in her sixties probably helped.

I glare at my reflection, at the man staring back with half his face a gnarled mess and the other carved from stone.

My pulse is still raging, not just from the pain, but from the feel of Rory’s hand wrapped around mine.

The softness. The warmth. The damn concern in her eyes like she actually gives a shit.

No one looks at me like that anymore.

I drag a hand down my face and suck in a breath, wincing as the stretch tugs at healing flesh. I’m not ready for this. Not physically. Not emotionally. And definitely not with her.

A knock sounds behind me.

“Alessandro?” she calls softly. Not chipper this time. Not snarky. Just calm. “I know you don’t want to do this. But you need to.”

I grit my teeth. “What I need is space.”

“Well, tough shite. You get me instead.”

The door creaks open, and I don’t stop her. Maybe I should. Maybe if I had an ounce of pride left, I’d bark out another order, threaten to fire her, demand she get the fuck out of my bathroom.

But I don’t.

Because some twisted part of me doesn’t want her to go.

She steps inside with quiet confidence, carrying a folded towel and a plastic basin of supplies. “Do you want me to check the water again?”

“You really think I give a shit about a few degrees?” I mutter.

She shrugs, setting everything down with practiced ease. “You’d be surprised. Burn patients are more sensitive to slight variations in temperature. Your father gave me your charts to look over and your former nurse?—”

I cut her off with a dismissive wave. “Of course he did.”

She doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she crosses the tile, eyes darting to mine before drifting away again. “I’ll let you undress on your own,” she says, voice low. “If you need help, you can ask.”

My mouth opens, ready to bark something cruel, anything to drive her away, but the words die in my throat. Because this… this is the first time someone hasn’t hovered. Hasn’t stared. Hasn’t tried to take over.

She’s giving me space. Control. Choice.

And fuck, that hits harder than anything.

I force a swallow. “You sure you want to do this?”

That gets her attention. She turns to me, those emerald eyes blazing now. “I wouldn’t have come in here if I wasn’t.”

“I’m not just scarred,” I rasp. “It’s worse than anything you’ve probably seen.”

She straightens slowly, setting the towel aside. “I’ve seen worse, remember?”

“No,” I shake my head. “You haven’t seen me .”

Her lips part, but no sound comes out.

I press on, the words dragging out of me like glass. “It’s not just my back or chest. It’s everywhere. My thigh. My ribs. Hell, half of my goddamned body. Skin grafts. Discoloration. Shit that makes nurses flinch when they think I’m not looking.”

“I’m not them.” Her voice is quiet but firm. She steps closer, her fingers ghosting near the hem of my shirt. “But if you really think I’m not a good fit for you, and you want me to leave, say it now. And I will.”

Indecision wars at my insides. Even if I send her home, Papà will only find me another nurse. One less enjoyable to look at and definitely less entertaining to fight with.

“No…” I grumble, keeping my head down.

With a huff of resignation, I start with the waistband of my sweatpants. My fingers fumble a little, but I get them down. The compression shorts underneath are harder, tighter, and stiff against the burns, but eventually I get them off too. I don’t look at her. I can’t.

By some miracle, at least my cock is behaving, my entire body too tense to give into the heated sensations this woman ignites.

The worst part is the silence. The waiting.

I drag my shirt up and over my head, then peel off the compression garment. I don’t wince. I refuse.

The moment I’m fully undressed I hazard a quick glance over my scarred shoulder. Rory is turned away, facing the door, and the amount of relief that swells through me is palpable.

When I finally step into the warm water, it’s like being swallowed whole. The ache melts into the heat, and for a brief second, I let my head fall back against the tub. My eyes close.

And I breathe.

I don’t know how long I stay like that, but eventually, I hear the rustle of cloth and the soft thud of Rory’s knees hitting the bathmat. Even without seeing I know she’s beside me now, sleeves likely rolled up, gloved hands poised with gentle care.

“Start with my left side,” I mutter without opening my eyes.

“Yes, Mr. Rossi,” she murmurs, and I can hear the teasing smile under the formality.

I don’t reply. Can’t. Not when her hands dip into the water and begin to work. She’s efficient, quick, avoiding any spots still too raw. Her touch is… clinical. Careful.

She reaches a scar that splits across my ribs, one that never healed right. My whole body stiffens.

“You okay?” she asks quietly.

I nod once.

But I’m lying. I’m not okay.

Because no one’s touched me like this since the fire. No one except the hospital staff has seen me like this. And every second her hands skim across my skin, every time her breath brushes my shoulder, I unravel just a little more.

The initial tension dissipates, and my body starts to react to her touch. That familiar heat begins to descend, awakening a hint of desire. Not the right time, coglione .

“Almost done,” she whispers, rinsing the cloth, mercifully keeping her gaze on my upper half.

And I hate that I want her to stay.

That I want her to keep touching me.

That I want her, period.

The silence stretches as she finishes, her fingers stalling for a fraction of a second on my shoulder, just long enough for me to notice. Just long enough to make my chest ache with something dangerously close to hope.

She clears her throat and rises, the water rippling as she steps away. “I’ll be just over there if you need help getting out,” she says, her voice tight now. Strained.

I don’t respond, allowing her to move toward the door. Then I let out a ragged breath and stare at the ceiling.

Fuck me.

What the hell is happening?