Page 38 of Precious Hazard (Perfectly Imperfect #11)

“Will you stop fidgeting?” I snap.

A low grunt is the only response I get.

Rolling my eyes, I resume disinfecting Satan’s shoulder. Luckily, the bullet just nicked him, and the wound won’t need more than a couple of stitches. What a shame.

“Still can’t get over that a walking disaster saved your life, huh?” I look up, meeting Arturo’s narrowed stare.

The lighting in his bathroom is great, illuminating every angle of his handsome face.

I have a thing for men with sharp cheekbones, and his look as if they were carved from a jagged stone.

And those are not the only parts of him that appear sculpted.

With his shirt completely unbuttoned and the sides hanging loose and open, his chiseled pecs are on full display.

Mere inches from my face. Close enough for me to feel the warmth of his skin.

As if that wasn’t enough, the guy is sporting a fucking eight-pack. An eight-pack! I thought that was only a myth. Leave it to the devil himself to warp my reality. It truly is a shame that someone so drop-dead gorgeous is such an irritable prick.

“Well?” I prod. “Is that why you’ve been grouchy for the past hour? I totally get it. Must be a terrible hit to your massive ego, darling.”

Another grunt, followed by a huff. Maybe his throat is raw after all the yelling. While we were waiting for the cavalry to arrive, I had to endure his vehement tirade. Right there, in the middle of the desolate road.

It went as well as I might have expected, with an odd curveball thrown in.

A lot of, Are you out of your fucking mind?

A few, What the hell possessed you? Followed by the surprising, You could have gotten hurt!

I seriously doubt that last one was out of any real concern for my well-being.

Satan was probably just pissed over a close call where he might’ve had to explain to Drago my sudden imitation of Swiss cheese.

If it came down to it. But it didn’t, so now I get to deal with the petulant bear instead.

He did relent and give me his jacket when he noticed me shivering in the cold.

That was sort of astonishing, considering the timing.

I figured that since he was on a roll, he’d also ream me out for once again forgetting to bring my coat.

He didn’t. But he did tell me in no uncertain terms that, from that moment on, he was placing the Family on “high alert,” and that I wouldn’t be allowed to go anywhere without a security detail.

Then, he clammed up and didn’t say another word.

Not while his men descended on us, nor during our entire ride home. It was a bit unnerving, actually.

I look away and tug the fabric of his shirt. “You need to bend down. I can’t reach the—”

Arturo wraps his uninjured arm around my waist, hoisting me onto the bathroom countertop.

“I guess that works, too.” Armed with a needle and thread from the first aid kit, I focus on the tear in his flesh. “You sure you don’t have any local anesthetics?”

Instead of answering, he snatches the bottle of whiskey that he left next to the sink earlier and takes a long drink straight out of the bottle. That explains the kitchen detour before we came upstairs, I guess.

Taking a deep breath, I pinch the sides of the wound and insert the needle into his flesh. He doesn’t even flinch.

“Did your brother teach you to shoot?” His deep voice in the confines of the bathroom almost startles me.

“Oh, so you’re talking to me now?” I lift an eyebrow. “Yes, Drago taught me. Did you teach your sisters?”

“Of course not. Women shouldn’t handle firearms.”

“‘ Women shouldn’t handle firearms ,’” I say in my best impression of his voice. “Jesus, listen to you.”

He grunts again, and the muscles of his jaw tense.

I can hardly contain my laughter. What would he think if he knew that Sienna is almost as good with a gun as me? Should I tell him? Just to pester him a little more?

My eyes wander to Arturo’s right forearm.

The sleeve of his shirt is torn in several places and saturated with blood.

He got hurt while shielding me with his arms when the rear windshield was blasted away.

No one I know, other than my brother, would have been willing to do that.

For me. Put themselves in harm’s way to save me .

Certainly not the losers I’ve dated before.

“This is done.” I tie the thread just like Keva taught me and nod toward his right arm. “Let’s look at those cuts now.”

“It’s fine.”

I shrug. “Whatever. If it gets infected and you end up with gangrene, the doctors will just chop off your arm. But I guess that’s not an issue since you’re ambidextrous, right?”

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, the space 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.”

“You’re absolutely unhinged.”

“Hmm, maybe.” He grasps my chin between his fingers and leans forward until his lips hover just an inch from mine. “But only around you, it seems.”

“You’re drunk,” I whisper.

“I certainly hope so.”

His mouth slams against mine with such force that breath gets trapped in my lungs. The kiss is hard and angry. And it immediately sends me into a blissful state. Someplace where all rational thought ceases to exist.

All that remains is the ability to feel.

My arms wrap around Arturo’s neck of their own volition.

My tongue duels with his as if this kiss will never be enough.

My God! His lips… Trailing along my chin, down the column of my neck, across my collarbone, they are the embodiment of sinfulness itself.

I can’t escape them. I don’t want to! All I can do is hold on for dear life.

I spear my fingers through the soft locks of his hair, arching my back to offer more of myself to him. More for that deviant mouth of his to explore as it continues on its downward path, trailing those tantalizing lips toward my breasts.

“You damn witch.”