Page 25 of Brutal Heir (Ruthless Heirs #3)
I slide my hand over his and squeeze tight. “It never did,” I whisper. “You’re the strongest man I’ve ever known, Ale.” Rough skin beneath my palm catches my eye, calling attention to the torn, bloodied flesh across his knuckles.
“What happened to your hand?” I shriek, pulling back my own to survey the damage.
“It’s nothing.” He jerks his hand free, hiding it behind his back.
“Did something happen with your father at the office?”
“It was stupid. We got into an argument, and I got pissed and put my fist through a wall. Nothing serious, I swear.”
I eye him skeptically, certain there’s more to this story than he’s letting on. But he’s already focused on the mangled wheelchair below, a triumphant smile edging across his lips. When he finally lifts his gaze to mine, the look in his eyes steals my breath.
Fierce. Free. Alive.
The week flies by with a steady routine of sponge baths, dressing changes, physical therapy and occasional visits to the Velvet Vault. I’m beginning to feel as much at home in the nightclub as Alessandro, though we never venture during evening hours when Manhattan’s elite invades the trendy locale.
Despite both Vincent and Lawson urging Alessandro to make an appearance during business hours, he’s declined on multiple occasions. I’ve now made it my personal mission to get him back into that club. With the physical scars healing, it’s time to delve into the psychological ones.
Those are typically the hardest ones, but there’s nothing more fulfilling than conquering them.
So I march into the living room holding two ornate masks behind my back, my hair styled in soft waves across my bare shoulders and wearing a scandalous little black dress I brought from my college days in Belfast. It hasn’t seen the light of day since I landed on this side of the Atlantic.
The indecent hemline barely covers my arse, and the plunging neckline gives my tiny boobs way more cleavage than they deserve.
Alessandro is stretched across the couch watching the news in nothing but low-slung sweatpants. I find my gaze drifting over the bandages and instead focusing on the muscled male beneath. In a few short weeks, the physical therapy has made quite an impact already. Quit it, Rory !
Getting my head out of the gutter, I drop the glittering masks behind a pillow, then perch on the armrest of the couch beside him, crossing my legs. The vase of fresh fire lilies catches my eye on the coffee table as I sit. Even fire gives birth to beauty . It couldn’t be more true in this case.
The man has surprisingly become quite a good patient, and sometimes I’m convinced he actually looks forward to our nightly baths. The absence of his shirt would suggest I’m correct.
But I have bigger plans for us tonight.
“Don’t tell me it’s bath time already?” he groans without turning his head to look at me. Despite the annoyance in his tone, the spark of excitement I catch from the corner of my eye calls him a big fat liar.
“Actually, I was thinking we could go to the Velvet Vault tonight.”
That gets his attention.
Alessandro’s head swivels over his shoulder, and those dual-hued orbs widen as they drink me in.
Now that really gets his attention.
He sits up, heated gaze devouring me like a starving man presented with a forbidden feast. It’s slow, hungry, and utterly shameless.
It razes across the swell of my breasts then dips down to my exposed thighs.
That look is more lethal than any weapon in any man’s arsenal.
“ Dio , Rory…” he mutters under his breath.
“Is that a yes then?” I offer a cocky grin, despite the heat his gaze has ignited across every inch of my body.
Slowly, he draws those mesmerizing eyes, one the deepest sapphire and the other a startling midnight, back up to meet my own. “Huh?” he stutters.
“It’s time for you to show your face at the Velvet Vault. You’re no closer to discovering who’s the culprit skimming money from the club. Maybe if we’re actually there during business hours, you’ll see something.”
He rises, gaze still intent on me, or my dress. Then that flicker of excitement wanes, his expression falling. “I can’t…”
“Why not?”
“Do I really have to spell it out for you?” he grinds out, his hand motioning up and down his bandaged torso.
“No one will see the bandages or the compression garments, Alessandro. You’ll be fine with a dress shirt for one night. You don’t need to put on a full suit and tie.”
“No…” He shakes his head, eyes chasing to the floor.
I close the distance between us and lift his chin, so his gaze meets mine. “You can do this. You need to do this for the sake of your club.”
“What about my face?” he hisses, jerking his head so quickly I release his chin. But before he can get away, I curl my hand around his arm forcing him still.
Turbulent eyes meet mine, and the depth of pain hidden beneath the surface is heartbreaking.
With my free hand I gently caress his cheek, the one with the tight, ravaged skin, and lightly brush my thumb over the uneven patches. Drawing in a breath muddled with his intoxicating scent, I whisper, “You are a beautiful man, Alessandro Rossi, and no scars will ever change that.”
“I think you need your vision checked, little leprechaun.”
I shake my head. “I can see just fine, McFecker. And from where I’m standing, you’re even more attractive than before. Those scars don’t make you less. They prove you survived, and damn if that isn’t the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
A twinge of crimson floods his cheeks as he regards me.
“But if you insist on being a stubborn gobshite, I’ve already spoken to Vincent, and he loved my idea about a masquerade party tonight.” Releasing him, reluctantly, I spin around and produce the two masks I had Mrs. Jenkins buy this morning.
One is red and gold with flickering flame motifs, gemstones, and phoenix feather accents, while the other is charcoal black with silver wisps curling like smoke and crackled texture like scorched earth. Fire and smoke. Together, they’re chaos and calm.
He reaches for the black one, and a reluctant smile smothers the frown. “Well, how can I say no when it seems as if you’ve thought of everything?”
“You can’t.”