Page 8 of Brutal Heir (Ruthless Heirs #3)

PERSONAL CARE

R ory

I can’t help but stare at the sprawling master bedroom with Alessandro pressed to my side. He’s a damned good faker, all cocky smirks and assured glances, but I can feel the tremor of pain radiating through his body with every step toward his room. It must be unbearable.

Forcing on the detached, clinical mask I’ve learned to wear around my patients, I focus on his bedroom as a distraction. I’ve seen cold rooms before. Hospital rooms, morgues, interrogation rooms. But nothing feels as cold as this one.

Alessandro’s master is all hard surfaces and perfect lines, stone, steel, glass, all in varying shades of black and gray. No warmth. No mess. No life.

Like the man himself.

God, he’d die if he ever saw the mess that is my room.

The bed is massive, perfectly made with dark sheets so crisp they look ironed.

He probably has a maid that does that. One side doesn’t look like it’s been touched in weeks.

The curtains are drawn halfway, leaving just enough light to catch the reflection of the skyline on the windows. Even Manhattan looks cold from in here.

He peels his body from mine and limps in a few steps ahead of me, heading straight for the dresser. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak.

“Nice place,” I say lightly, scanning the room. “Very... emotionally repressed, Batman.”

That gets me a look. Not a full one. Just a slow, sideways cut of his eyes.

“I wasn’t going for cozy,” he mutters.

“No, really? You mean the ice castle vibe wasn’t a coincidence?”

The ghost of something, maybe a smirk, or a twitch, crosses his scarred mouth before he looks away.

The silence stretches between us, thick and brittle.

“You ready?” I ask gently, nodding toward the bathroom.

He doesn’t move for a long minute, and the hesitation in his dark gaze stirs something deep inside me.

“Where did my father find you anyway?” he finally mumbles as he eyes me from across the room.

“Actually, it was your cousins, Isabella and Serena, who found me.”

His mouth twists before a rueful chuckle slips out. “Those nosy, meddlesome little fuckers.”

“You’re lucky to have family who cares, Alessandro.

” The words are out before I can stop them, sending instant regret spiraling.

No need to overshare, Rory. Over the years, I’ve learned to keep a professional distance with my patients, and the best way to do that is to give them little of me.

Given the nature of the personal care I provide, it’s essential to draw the line.

“You’ve done burn care before?” Mismatched eyes lift to mine, a hint of vulnerability sneaking through. I’d noticed the unusual coloration the moment I walked into the apartment. Heterochromia. Less than one percent of the population has it.

He looks at me like he’s daring me to stare.

So I do. Not out of pity. Not out of curiosity. But because… I can’t look away.

One of his eyes is a sharp, glacial blue. Cold enough to cut glass. The kind of stare that keeps people out. The other—dark. Stormy. Endless. It holds something heavier. Pain, maybe. Or guilt. Or both.

It’s the contrast that hits me the hardest. The sharp, brilliant blue of a boy who once thought he ruled the world, and the shadowed midnight of a man who watched it burn.

It’s like he’s made of two halves. Light and dark. Beauty and ruin. Pride and punishment. And somehow, it works.

Not because it’s perfect. But because it’s real.

“You done staring?” he mutters, voice like broken gravel.

“Not even close.” I draw in a breath, finally tearing my gaze away from his enigmatic one. “Yes, Alessandro, I have done burn care before.”

“On someone this bad?”

Somehow, I know the question isn’t about the scars. It’s about him. The shame buried under all that anger. So I meet his gaze dead-on. “Worse.”

His jaw tightens, but he says nothing.

I continue my slow perusal of the sprawling space, the decadent black leather headboard, the silky sheets, the dark velvet curtains that drown out the light.

As I pass the walk-in wet bar near the back wall stocked with top-shelf whiskey and scotch, I find a door ajar which leads to another bedroom.

It’s about half the size of the massive one that belongs to the king.

To break the looming tension, I blurt, “So is this my room?”

“Your room ?” His dark brows slam together.

“Yeah, that was part of the package. I’m a live-in nurse, remember?”

He grits out a curse in Italian before dragging his hand through his hair. “Un-fucking-believable. I’m going to murder those two…” Once he’s done cursing his cousins, he lifts that tumultuous gaze to mine. “No, you will not be sleeping in an adjoining room to mine.”

“Why not? It would make the most sense.”

“Ever heard of privacy?”

“Listen here, Alessandro, as painful as it may be to hear, I’m going to be your nurse.

There will be no privacy between you and me.

I will see the worst of you, and hell, you may even see the worst of me because only a few minutes with you, and I can already tell you’re not going to make this easy on me.

I will see you naked, I will see you in pain and struggling. You might as well get over it now.”

With his jaw hanging open, I spin on my heel and march through the open door into the adjoining bedroom. Too bad I didn’t bring my duffel bag, and now I’ll never find my way back to the kitchen in this sprawling labyrinth.

Instead, I plant my arse on the bed, claiming it as mine.

He watches from the doorway, a tangle of unreadable emotions darkening his countenance.

Then he slowly turns around and heads for the bathroom like a soldier marching into battle. And maybe he is.

I give him a minute before I follow, then pause at the door lingering against the doorframe and pretend I don’t notice the way his hands tremble when he rests them on the vanity.

Or how long he hesitates before his fingers move to the buttons of his dress shirt.

It’s a painstaking process to watch. I have to force my hands into tight fists at my sides to keep them from shooting out to unfasten the buttons myself and putting an end to the drawn-out misery. But I don’t dare move.

I’m not here to coddle him. It would be a disservice to his recovery.

An endless minute later, he shrugs off the crisp black shirt, allowing it to fall in a heap on the ground. I keep my gaze steady, clinical, as I regard the bandages haphazardly positioned across my new patient.

But I see everything.

The scarred flesh seeping beneath the white gauze. The missing ink across the right side of his back. The burns that cross his chest like a road map of war in his reflection. I see the parts that still haven’t fully healed. The ones that probably never will.

And still, I don’t flinch.

Nor do I stare too long at the broad expanse of his shoulders, the muscles rippling beneath the ravaged skin or the smooth planes on the unmarred half of his back.

Alessandro watches me in the mirror, waiting for it. For the recoil. For the barely disguised horror he likely sees across strangers’ faces. He seems to hide behind anger like it’s bulletproof glass. But scars don’t make a man weak. They make him human. And I’m not sure he remembers how to be one.

So, I pull out the gloves from my back pocket, bury the snark I use as a defensive shield and whisper softly, “This might sting.”

His throat bobs. “I’m used to pain.”

“Doesn’t mean you have to bear it alone.” Damn it. Where did that come from?

I hazard a glance to his reflection in the mirror to see if he’s noticed the slip. For a second, just a second, I think I see something crack behind his eyes.

Then it’s gone.

Back to stone.

“Okay, we’ll start with your back and work our way down.”

He nods, teeth clenched.

My gaze dips to the patchwork of bandages that dip beneath the waistband of his slacks.

Then to the perfect curve of his arse beneath those tight pants.

My pulse accelerates, an unexpected wave of heat flushing my cheeks.

Rory, you eejit! Stop that . Blinking quickly, I tear my eyes away.

Here I am spouting shite about being professional and then I’m ogling my patient’s behind? What is wrong with me?

As I lift my gloved hands to his back and hover for an endless minute, it occurs to me that I’ve never worked on a patient so close to my own age.

Isabella and Serena had mentioned their cousin had just turned twenty-four, only a year older than me.

I blame the slip of my professionalism on that, and the fact that Alessandro Rossi, despite the scars, is a visually enticing male specimen.

Therefore, my reaction is simply physical, an instinctual, primal one I had no control over. And I allow myself a pass.

“What are you waiting for?” Alessandro’s growl tears me from the odd moment of floundering.

I gently place one hand on his back, and he flinches, the firm, unyielding muscles beneath trembling at my touch.

“Hey, boss! You’ve got another visitor.” A deep voice bellows across the massive space. Through the crack in the bathroom door, I can just make out the guard, Johnny, I’d met earlier.

“Thank fuck,” he rasps.

Before I can stop him, he grabs his shirt off the floor and ducks out of the bathroom.

“You’re going to have to let me clean those wounds sooner or later!” I call out after him.

“You’ll have to catch me first,” he hisses over his shoulder.

“McFecker,” I mutter with a snort. But I can’t help the twitch of a smile pulling at my lips. And damn, if I’m not tempted to chase him.