Page 45 of Brutal Heir

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 shouldnotbe 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.