Page 20 of Brutal Heir (Ruthless Heirs #3)

WHO HURT YOU?

R ory

This morning’s physical therapy session has been particularly brutal, and with his usual therapist gone today, I’m left with the job of helping Alessandro through it all. I don’t know what’s gotten into him today. He’s pushing himself too hard, and I can’t understand why the sudden change.

He’s already sweating by the time we make it to the parallel bars and the staircase just beyond.

His left hand grips the cold metal tight enough to make his knuckles white, while his right, wrapped in a pressure glove to keep the scar tissue flat, trembles against his thigh.

“Let’s just try a few steps today,” I whisper gently standing only a foot away from him. “Then we’ll call it.”

“No,” he grits out. “I’m doing the whole flight of stairs.”

Typical stubborn bastard. He can barely keep his balance, and he wants to conquer Everest. He refused to bring the wheelchair today, and I admire his dedication but I’m also worried.

“Alessandro,” I warn, stepping in close, “if your grafts tear?—”

“Then they tear.” His voice is ice and fire, sharp enough to slice through the air between us. “I’m not going to be a fucking invalid the rest of my life.”

I breathe through the flare of frustration. This isn’t new. Every session is a battle, not with his body, but with his pride.

“You’re not,” I say, quietly, even though we’re the only two people in the massive space. “But if you keep pushing like this, you could undo everything. You don’t get to brute-force your way through recovery.” Unlike everything else in his life.

He doesn’t answer. Just looks away. Jaw clenched. Shoulders twitching with tension.

But I see it, the flicker of something deeper. Shame. Fear.

I step closer, voice soft. “You still think needing help makes you weak?”

His lips press into a hard line. I don’t wait for an answer.

“You survived something most people wouldn’t. You’re here. That’s not weakness, Alessandro. That’s strength.” Even though I’ve said it dozens of times, in moments like these, he seems to need the reminder.

Silence. The kind that hums with unsaid words and unshed pain.

Then he huffs out a breath. “Fine. Just a few steps.”

He turns slowly. The stairs loom like a mountain. I position myself behind him, close enough to catch him if he slips.

He lifts one foot. Groans. Every inch upward is a war.

But he does it.

One step.

Then another.

He makes it halfway up the staircase before he sags, gripping the rail like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the earth. I should have stopped him at three, but damn it, I want to see him succeed.

His voice is rough, barely a whisper. “It hurts like hell.”

I place a hand on his back, just between his shoulder blades, over scarred, healing skin. “I know. But you’re doing it anyway. That’s what matters.”

He nods once. Doesn’t say anything more.

He makes it to the seventh step before his entire body sags against me. I’m forced to grip the bar to keep us both from toppling over. The man is enormous.

“There ya go,” I murmur into his shoulder, “you did more than I thought you could, okay?”

“Okay.”

Alessandro slowly turns, and I help guide him back to the bench. He sits, a groan squeezing through his clenched lips. I fold down beside him and this time, he doesn’t brush me off like usual.

He just sits there, breathing hard, letting me stay close.

And for the first time, I think he realizes he doesn’t have to fight alone anymore. And that makes me happier than it should. It’s hard not to become involved in the lives of your patients, but I’ve always been able to draw the line. With Alessandro, it’s becoming more difficult by the day.

The feelings are coming on harder and faster.

More impossible to ignore. I’ve tried, God, I’ve tried.

I’ve told myself it’s just the proximity, the adrenaline, the chaos of living together.

That it’s just because he’s beautiful in that dark, broken way, and I’ve always been a sucker for the tragic ones.

But it’s more than that. It’s the way he looks at me like I’m not made of all the jagged pieces I hide. The way he listens, even when he’s angry, even when I’m pushing him. The way he’s starting to let me in, even when he’s fighting it.

It’s the way I feel when I’m near him. Like I can breathe, like I can finally stop running, even if it’s just for a moment.

And that’s the worst part. Because I can’t afford to stop. I can’t afford him. I can’t afford any of this.

Because if I let him in, if I let these feelings keep growing, I know I’ll never walk away.

And I’ll have to.

Because there’s no world where a girl like me gets to keep a man like him.

Reaching for his duffle bag on the bench, Alessandro peels off his damp shirt, then slips out of his shorts, drawing my attention.

And sweet suffering Christ, I nearly forget how to breathe.

Sweat glistens across every ridge of muscle, the hard planes of his chest rising and falling with each breath.

My eyes trail over the jagged scars that crisscross his torso, evidence of everything he’s survived.

Somehow, they only make him more beautiful.

Raw. Real. Powerful.

My fingers itch to trace each one, to memorize them like a map. I should look away, but I can’t. Because underneath all that damage is a man still fighting, and I’ve never wanted someone more in my life.

He draws a clean shirt over his head, then slides on the slacks. His shoulder bumps mine, drawing me from the heated inner musings. “Tell Sammy to pull the car around, I’m ready to go.”

I swallow hard, reminding myself I should not be ogling my patient like that. “Aye, will do, boss.”

Then I search the room for the wheelchair before internally cursing myself for having listened to him. Now I’m going to have to haul his stubborn, exhausted, albeit gorgeous, arse down the block to meet our driver.

After I shoot off a quick text to Sammy, I stand in front of him holding out my hand. His fingers easily wrap around my palm, but he doesn’t move from the bench, just glances up at me.

“Well, come on then,” I blurt.

“Give me a little tug.” A mischievous grin curls the corners of his mouth.

I slap a hand on my hip, shaking my head. “If you’re looking for someone to coddle you, I’m not your girl.”

“Clearly.” A deep, rumbling laugh vibrates across his broad chest as he pushes himself up to stand. “I’ve had enough pity to last a lifetime, anyway.”

“And I’m sure you didn’t need a second of it.” Rewarding him with a smile, I lead him out of the physical therapy suite, his hand tight around my own.

A blast of icy air whips across my face as the front doors of the building glide open, reminding me December has already arrived and before long Christmas will be upon us.

I can’t help but think about home, my friends, my family.

As complete shite as my family ended up being, it’s still impossible not to think about them and the happier times during the holidays.

I may be alone again this year, but at least I’ll have a permanent roof over my head.

With my thoughts elsewhere, I barely register the sound of approaching footfalls before I barrel into a body.

My gaze jerks up and lands on a pair of familiar, cold gray eyes peeking beneath tufts of scraggly blonde hair.

Then to that light scar, across his left brow.

The one I carved with my hairpin dagger…

No. No. No.

All the sights and sounds of the city blur around me, a muffled murmur beneath the manic drumbeats of my heart and the sudden roar of my pulse. The man stiffens, eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to place me.

The piece of shite doesn’t even remember me.

Meanwhile, I’ll never be able scrub his face from the dark recesses of my mind.

That night… oh, God, that horrible night.

The pillow over my head. The rip of clothes tearing.

Screams echo across my subconscious as I stand there frozen in the middle of the street. I’m vaguely aware of Alessandro beside me, his quiet presence anchoring me against the tidal wave of grisly memories threatening to swallow me whole.

My legs go numb. There’s a high-pitched ringing in my ears, like I’ve been submerged underwater. The world tilts sideways…and then his voice cuts through it all.

“Excuse me.” The polite words spoken from a monster tear me free from the downward spiral. I blink quickly to chase away the unspeakable images as the man moves around me, wearing a nondescript jacket and dark blue jeans, just like any other man wandering the streets of Manhattan.

He disappears into the building we’ve just come out of, and as I trail his form until it disappears into the elevator bank, my entire world narrows to only him. To that gravelly voice, to the scent of sweat and cheap cologne, to the terror of his body suffocating mine.

“Rory, what in fuck’s sake is wrong?”

I’m shaking, a tremor racing through my entire body.

“Rory!”

Another presence overpowers the lingering memories, the familiar soothing scent of amber and fresh rain filling my nostrils.

I blink again and meet a pair of mismatched orbs.

He’s standing in front of me, between me and the arsehole who stole something I’ll never get back.

“Alessandro?” My voice is not my own, it’s frail and airy, and feckin’ hell I hate the sound of it.

“Where did you just go?” His hands are wrapped around my arms, fingers digging into my skin. But unlike when other men touch me, I don’t feel the need to flee. Instead, Alessandro’s possessive hold is oddly comforting. “What the hell is wrong?”

A horn blares, jerking me from the wave of panic, and I lift my gaze over Alessandro’s shoulder to the Range Rover waiting for us by the curb. Now he’s the one guiding me to the car because I’m still shaking so badly, I can barely walk.

God, I never thought I would see that man again.

I’m surprised that he survived the sharp end of my hairpin dagger. The last time I saw him he was splayed out across my bed, his chest painted in blood. I should have struck harder.

Before the grisly memories can suck me under again, I’m shoved into the backseat of Alessandro’s car. I scoot all the way to the far end, curling against the door.

But there’s no escaping Alessandro’s worried, furious gaze.

“Tell me who hurt you,” he growls, eyes wild. “Because I swear to God, Rory, I’ll rip his fucking spine out and force him to watch as I do.”