Page 13 of Brutal Heir (Ruthless Heirs #3)

MCFECKER

R ory

My hands are still shaking. I slam the door shut behind me, pretending it’s not because of the six-foot god in the towel I just helped bathe.

“Just let me know when you’re ready for me to come back in,” I call out through the bathroom door. I’d darted out of there under the pretense of allowing Alessandro some privacy, but the truth is that I needed a minute after that steamy bath to compose myself too.

Pacing the length of his bedroom in quick, manic steps, I draw in slow measured breaths to still my racing heart. What sorcery is this? How could that foul-tempered, cocky gobshite have my hands shaking after a simple bath? That has never happened with any of my patients.

And I’ve seen more naked men than a Vegas bachelorette party.

Seeing the great Gemini heir at his most vulnerable snapped something inside me.

The rippling abs don’t hurt either. His body, much like the man himself, is a map of contradictions, stunningly perfect and tragically scarred.

It ignited feelings I thought I’d buried with that blade in Conall’s thigh.

Then plunged even deeper after that terrible night at the halfway house all those months ago.

This is the first time I’ve felt even a hint of desire since then…

The overwhelming weight pressing me down. The disgusting stench of sweat and cheap cologne. The rasp of his hot breath against my ear…

The sharp ding of my cell has my racing heart climbing up my throat. Fecking hell, Rory, get it together . Da would be embarrassed by the simpering fool you’ve become. Darting across Alessandro’s room through the adjoining door to my own, I grab my phone from the bed.

A new message from my soon-to-be ex-roommate flashes across the screen.

Shelly: How’s the new job?

I heave in a fortifying breath, and my fingers fly across the screen.

Me: Good.

I can’t very well tell her it’s been a disaster, and I have no idea if I’ll survive the day let alone the entire probationary week.

Shelly: That’s great. So when do you think you’ll be able to move your stuff out?

Me: I thought I had until next Friday.

Shelly: Our landlady is giving me crap about getting out sooner, Thursday the latest. She needs to send in a cleaning crew before the new tenants arrive.

Me: Okay, I’ll try to get my things out as soon as possible.

Shelly: Thanks, I appreciate it, Rory. Sorry it all went down like this. You were my favorite roommate yet.

A lot of good that does me.

Five days. I can do this. I can tame the broody millionaire and with any luck, secure a job and a great place to live for the next six months. Tossing my cell back onto the bed, I march back into McFecker’s room.

I can’t help but grin at the clever nickname.

Things between my new patient and me have to work out.

Otherwise, I’ll be moving back to that halfway house I first lived in when I arrived in Manhattan.

A chill skirts up my spine as the grisly memories attempt to resurface.

Nope, not opening up that particularly dark, tortured corner of my mind.

That horrible night must remain dead and buried…

“I’m ready.” Alessandro’s voice jerks me from the grim musings. His deep timbre seeps through the door, a mixture of reluctance and resignation resonating in his tone.

Steeling myself with another deep breath, I force my hand to the knob and twist.

The bathroom is humid, heavy with steam and the faint bite of antiseptic. Alessandro perches on the edge of the tub like a brooding Roman statue. He’s all sharp lines, glowering silence, and just enough towel flung across his legs to be considered polite.

Barely.

His scarred skin still glistens from the bath. Drops of water trail down the curve of his shoulder, disappearing into the ridges and valleys of skin the fire tried to claim.

He watches me as I peel off the wet gloves with a snap, replace them with new ones and reach for the ointment. His eyes are that same stormy mix of light and shadow, winter and fire. They track every move I make, like he’s waiting for me to flinch.

I don’t.

Instead, I kneel between his legs, trying very hard not to notice that said towel is doing a shite job of hiding the very obvious evidence that his cock is alive and well. Thanks in no small part to me, apparently.

The sight of it has that whisper of heat igniting low in my belly. Burying the completely inappropriate thoughts, I force my brain to switch into nurse mode.

“Try not to die while I’m applying this, yeah?” I mutter, dipping my fingers into the burn ointment and gently pressing it to the jagged mess of skin climbing up his side.

He hisses softly between his teeth.

“Sorry,” I murmur, glancing up.

His lips twitch. “You keep apologizing and I might start thinking you like me.”

“I like you just fine, Rossi,” I mutter, smoothing the ointment with slow, steady fingers. “When you’re not being a colossal pain in the arse.”

He chuckles, low and rough. The sound skates down my spine like a drag of heat. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” He grunts, the muscle beneath my hand twitching as I continue the slow circles.

“There won’t be many more coming so you better savor it.”

He narrows those mismatched eyes at me, like he’s debating whether to strangle me with the towel or devour me. Maybe both. “Are you always this mouthy with your patients?”

“Only with the ones who deserve it.”

He leans in slightly. Too close. Close enough that I catch the scent of that fancy soap I made him use. Something smoky and expensive that clings to his skin like sin. “You haven’t seen anything yet, Red.”

My breath hitches, and I curse silently. Not because I’m flustered. I’m not. But because my body is clearly a traitor, and I should’ve brought thicker gloves. “Red, how original.” I smirk. “That’s not a nickname I’ve heard about a thousand times.”

“It suits you.” His dark gaze drags down the length of my body, lingering a second too long at the apex of my thighs.

I can almost hear his unspoken question.

Yes, I’m red down there, too. Not that he’ll ever get the chance to see it.

Because he’s an arrogant bastard and most importantly, my patient !

And yet… I still want to trace every scar with my tongue. Ugh. Brain, no .

Instead, I force my thoughts to the tattoo inked beneath my breast. The permanent reminder of everything I’d left behind in Belfast. Saor óna slabhraí . Free from the chains. Get your shite together .

“But I have other nicknames if you prefer,” he continues, dragging my thoughts out of the gutter, “how do you feel about wildling, leprechaun, or tiny tyrant?”

“It’s not as good as McFecker.”

Another chuckle, the warm sound only intensifying the building heat. “I actually like that one. It suits me.”

Rolling my eyes, I tape down another bit of gauze, patting it, maybe a bit harder than necessary. He flinches. Good. “There. Chest all patched up. You’re welcome.”

Alessandro doesn’t move. Just stares down at me, chest rising and falling slowly beneath the compression bandage. The raw edge in his voice catches me off guard. “You treat me like I’m not broken.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re not broken. You’re just a little overcooked. Happens to the best of us.” I try to focus on wrapping another bandage around his hand, but my fingers are trembling now, damn it.

He actually laughs. Low and rough, like he’s not used to doing it anymore. It shoots straight through me like a shot of whiskey.

Careful, Rory.

I reach for the final bit of gauze, but my fingers brush his skin again, just above his hip. His abs tense under my touch. That towel isn’t hiding much. Not with how close we are. Not with the way his gaze flicks to my mouth like he’s trying to decide if kissing me would be worth the pain.

There’s something magnetic between us… something I can’t name and yet can’t deny either.

Still, I steady myself and wrap the final bandage around his thigh, ignoring the very obvious and enormous erection. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, keep it together, Rory .

“You’re not even scared of me, are you?”

I shrug, rising to my feet and tossing my gloves in the trash like I’m not two seconds away from internally combusting. “Should I be?”

His gaze darkens. “Most people are.”

“Well, I’m not most people. I’ve survived worse things than your death glare, Rossi. Like airplane food. And one very unfortunate Tinder date involving a magician when I first arrived in Manhattan.”

“Tragic.”

“You have no idea.” I turn, making for the door, mostly because I need to put space between me and his smoldering nakedness before I do something that violates every professional boundary I’m pretending to maintain.

But I can’t help the last word. I toss it over my shoulder with a smirk.

“Oh, and by the way, about the other night when I walked in on you… I’ve seen plenty of willies in my time.

Yours isn’t that special so there’s no need to be embarrassed.

” Lies . Even beneath the towel, I’m already certain this man has the biggest cock I’ve ever seen.

Like I’m fairly certain he would break me with that thing.

“Not special?” he calls after me. “Liar…”

I stop at the door, glance back just enough to catch the smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Then I guess you better prove me wrong, aye?” The retort is out before I have the sense to keep the words tucked behind my teeth.

Then I slam the door shut before I can see the look on his face or feel my own cheeks explode into flames.

God feckin’ help me, what is wrong with my mouth? This man is going to be the end of me.