Page 67 of Precious Hazard

His eyes turn into slits as he stares at me. That devilish gaze holds me hypnotized as he slowly shrugs off his shirt and throws it onto the floor. Then, he extends his arm, placing his palm on the mirror behind me.

My throat suddenly feels dry, but I try to swallow, feeling nearly intoxicated by his proximity. The urge to wrap my arms around him and lean my forehead on his chest is crushing. I need that contact. Need to feel his heartbeat. Need to be sure he… isn’t dead.

The danger to me during that chase and shootout was practically nothing compared to the peril he willingly put himself in. Taking on four armed men. Alone! Away from the cover of our vehicle. Idiot!

I almost had a fucking heart attack watching Arturo sprint toward the assailants. Does he think he’s indestructible? A goddamned superhero? Riggo’s shouts for me to get down were pointless. I couldn’t take my eyes off the fearless fool. Couldn’t move, couldn’t draw a breath. Too fucking terrified that a bullet would find him. He sprinted through a hailstorm of them. And then I saw it. The impact and his slight jerk as one pierced him.

That’s when my heart stopped beating. When air abandoned my lungs. When a silent scream ripped through my head until it finally registered that he was still moving. Still advancing. Still shooting. Was still alive.

Shaking my head to get rid of this ridiculous desire to nuzzle his warm, broad chest, I force my focus to his arm.

“Jesus fuck, Arturo,” I choke out, staring at the bloody mess that is his forearm.

“Just spray it with a disinfectant and wrap it up. The cuts aren’t deep.”

“I have to check if there’s any glass in the wounds first.”

“Just can’t wait to start digging into my flesh, huh,gattina?” His lips curve into a crooked smile.

“Yup, nailed it.”

His smile widens. He takes another big swig of his whiskey and nods. “Carry on.”

With all the dried blood and the ink underneath, I can’t see shit. I grab a towel hanging on the wall beside me and soak it under the spray of warm water. It takes me at least ten minutes to manage to clean up his arm. It must hurt like hell, but Arturo doesn’t let out a sound. He does, though, take a few more swigs and sets down the now half-empty bottle.

Annoyingly, he was also right. The cuts seem shallow. It looked much worse with all that smeared blood. There aren’t any glass shards in the wounds, either, thank goodness. I cover the cuts with disinfectant spray, then take a roll of bandage and start wrapping it around his forearm.

As I do, my eyes keep darting to his biceps. To the wings of a creature and the dagger overhead.

To the words inked across his skin.

l’Onore…Rispetto.

I want to know what they mean. Why are they important? To him.

If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that my husband doesn’t do anything half-assed.

And, fuck. Those muscles! The bathroom is large, but from here, squashed between the mirror and Arturo’s body, thespace seems minuscule. This close, I can feel his warm breath fanning my cheek.

“Is this what it takes for you to finally say my name?” he whispers right next to my ear.

“What are you talking about?” I mumble while rummaging through the first aid kit in search of medical tape to secure the bandage.

“I quite like the sound of it on your lips. Maybe I’ll make it a habit to bleed more often, just to hear you say it again.”

“I have no idea what you’re rambling about, DeVille.”

“No?” He places his hand over mine, right where I’m holding the end of the bandage pressed to his forearm to keep it from unraveling. “But I think you do.”

That wicked smirk dances on his lips again. He holds my gaze captive as he applies pressure to the back of my hand.

“What the…” I try pulling away, without success. “Stop. Stop it right now.”

He just keeps pressing harder, until bright red stains start seeping through the sterile white gauze, spreading under my palm.

“The fuck, Arturo! Stop doing that!”

That devilish grin on his face transforms into an unnervingly devastating smile. “I was right.”