Page 66 of Precious Hazard (Perfectly Imperfect #11)

I tilt my head, taking a closer look at the man slumped in the chair next to my hospital bed.

His hand lies possessively over my sheet-covered thigh while his head, facing toward me, rests on the narrow space beside my hip.

He’s asleep, breathing evenly. But, something tells me this slumber is far from tranquil.

Dark under-eye circles mar his face, which looks gaunt and a bit yellowish under the layers of soot and smears of dried blood.

His usually perfectly swept-back hair is a tangled mass of strands sticking out every which way, and some are caked together by what I suspect could also be dried blood.

His clothes are in an even worse state. The once-pristine white shirt is now tattered and torn, covered in all kinds of stains (dirt, blood, sweat), and reeking of smoke.

The only clean thing on him is the white bandages wrapped around his shoulder and elbows.

How long has he been here? How long have I? My last clear memory is tracing my fingers over his face. The rest is a bit of a shambles. The attack. The fire. The sound of his voice. Yes, in the car… He was yelling, urging someone to get us to the hospital. And then—

His voice echoes through my mind so clearly.

First, his commands, then his pleas for me not to leave him.

I remember his words. Him telling me that he couldn’t live without me.

Something I’ve yearned to hear for a long, long time.

But… But he didn’t say the words I wanted to hear the most. He didn’t say that he loves me.

Here’s the thing about words. Saying them hardly ever requires a great deal of effort.

People have been known to say whatever pops into their minds, whether it is the truth or not.

A lot of times, words are used to manipulate a situation in someone’s favor.

In my life, a few men have told me that they loved me just to get me into their beds.

They lied, and I knew it, but pretended they were being honest. I wanted that illusion.

Living in a fantasy can be a beautiful thing sometimes.

Telling someone that you love them is so easy. Meaning it and showing it, that’s the hard part.

This man risked his life for me.

Was that Arturo’s way of showing that he has feelings for me?

Dare I hope that maybe… just maybe, he loves me but can’t voice it just yet?

Or show me that he cares in a way that would be more obvious?

I certainly haven’t made it easy for him to go down that route.

Can’t blame him for keeping mum when I did everything in my power to convince him that I can’t stand him.

All because I am too scared to lower my defenses and admit that I’m in love with him.

Across from me, the door cracks open, making me glance up. A nurse steps into the room carrying a bag of saline solution. Her footfalls are nearly silent on the linoleum floor as she walks around Arturo to get to the IV stand by my bed.

“How are you feeling, Mrs. DeVille? Any pain or discomfort?” she whispers as she replaces the meds.

I manage a small smile and shake my head.

“The doctor will be by shortly to see you. I’ll remind him to check up on your husband, too.

” She gestures to Arturo with her chin. “His vitals weren’t too good after that stunt he pulled while you were in the OR.

Passed out shortly after you were wheeled in here.

Wouldn’t leave your side. Not even to get cleaned up. ”

She must read the confusion on my face.

“Our supply of O negative blood was depleted,” she elaborates.

“That’s your blood type, by the way, if you didn’t know.

It’s special. O negative can be given to anyone, regardless of their blood type, but people like you, with O negative blood, can only receive that type.

So while you were in surgery, your husband”—her gaze fixes on Arturo as she continues in a reverent tone—“made our technician draw the blood for the transfusion from him. He’s your match, you see.

And, it wasn’t just a single donation. He made them take four units of his blood.

That’s extremely dangerous. I heard he actually had to be subdued before he went into hemorrhagic shock.

” A serene smile pulls at her lips. “He must love you very much.”

Stunned speechless, I watch her retreating back as she departs, before my eyes dart to my sleeping husband. Arturo hasn’t even stirred this entire time.

A stab of pain shoots up my arm from the IV site when I reach out to brush away a strand of hair that has fallen over his forehead.

Instead of the usual softness, my fingers encounter brittle texture and soot.

My throat feels raw, as if I haven’t had water in days.

Speaking seems like an impossible feat, but I manage to rasp, “Arturo.”

His head snaps up so suddenly that I nearly jump out of my skin. His gaze immediately finds mine and locks in place. Not a single facial muscle of his moves. He doesn’t even blink. Just… stares.

“Arturo?”

Nothing.

I’m not even sure if he’s breathing. His tired-looking, bloodshot eyes pierce me with that silent, frantic look, scouring my face with disturbing intensity.

It’s weird as fuck.

Slowly, I move my hand to lay it over his, where it still rests on my thigh.

At the moment of contact, a violent shudder works its way through his body, but otherwise, he remains motionless.

He just… keeps looking at me. What happened to him?

Something had to. In these past few months, I’ve gotten to know Arturo enough to know that this isn’t normal.

I’ve never seen him behave like this. It makes me seriously question his present state of mind.

“Um… maybe we should call a doctor?”

That gets me a blink. Then, he practically springs off the chair as if he’s been shocked and rushes out of the room. Within seconds, he’s back and half dragging, half carrying a middle-aged guy in a white coat. Without a single word, he deposits the hyperventilating man next to my bed.

“I meant for you,” I mutter. “I feel fine.”

Another blink, and the poor doctor gets shoved out of the room. The door slams shut with a loud bang, and then Arturo is back at my side. Slowly and carefully, he picks up my hand, covers it with his other palm, and resumes his silent, bizarre vigil.

“You’re freaking me out, Arturo.”

The hold on my hand tightens. He leans forward, ever so slowly, until his face is mere inches from mine.

“You died.” His voice is so quiet, it hardly qualifies as a whisper. “For a minute and forty-seven seconds, your heart stopped. And during each of those one hundred and seven seconds, I died a thousand deaths. It fucking broke me, gattina .”

I suck in a breath.

I’ve never really thought about dying. Well, I never contemplated what happens to our bodies and souls after death.

There were times, though, when I did wonder if my life would have any impact on this world.

The answer was always: unlikely. I haven’t done any great deeds.

Nothing that would leave behind a legacy that could be carried on. No amazing feats to speak of.

Since I’m not what most would call a “likable person,” my death would probably not affect many people at all.

Drago and Keva, certainly. They’d take it hard.

Perhaps also a handful of friends. Jelena.

As of a few months ago, Sienna. And, maybe, my mechanic.

He’d only miss me because he earned a small fortune over the years fixing my old car.

That’s what I figured, considering my role.

Never in a million years did I expect that my death would break the mighty Arturo DeVille.

“I can’t live through that a second time,” he continues in an unsteady voice. “I’d rather die than experience it again. Do you understand me?”

It’s my turn to stare at him, stupefied. The only thing I can do is nod, too shaken by his tone and the tremble in his voice to manage anything else. He sounds devastated and absolutely serious.

“Good.” He swallows the distance until our foreheads touch. Cupping my face with his hands, he closes his eyes and lets out a long exhale. “Jesus fuck, baby.”

Tilting my face, I brush my mouth over his. When he pulls my lower lip between his lips, he does it with such tenderness that my heart swells in my chest. This must be the softest, most gentle kiss we’ve ever shared. It shakes me to the core.

“You need to rest,” he whispers against my lips, still brushing them with his. “Ilaria will be back in a couple of hours to give you a checkup.”

“Okay.” I am tired, kind of groggy. A nap sounds heavenly right now. Whatever meds I’m on must be causing the drowsiness I’m feeling. “Where is Drago?” I ask before settling in.

“He’s in the waiting room. Security had to restrain him, but I’ll make sure he’s here when you wake up.”

“Mmm… thank you.” My eyelids feel so heavy.

“And then, I have some paperwork you’ll need to sign.”

Of course, even in death, one can’t escape bureaucracy. “Sure.”

I nuzzle my face into his palm and let sleep take me.

***

“I’m going to fucking kill that son of a bitch.”

I glare at my brother. “No, you won’t.”

“You almost died because of him!” he snarls.

The last thing I want to do is see Drago as distraught as he was when he barged into my hospital room ten minutes ago.

Scared shitless would probably be a better way of describing the expression on his face.

Still, I’d rather deal with that than his current murderous ire.

I’m seriously worried that he might really kill Arturo. Reaching out, I take his hand in mine.

“No. I nearly died because I froze up. There was time for me to flee, and the path to the front door wasn’t yet blocked. I could’ve run out of the house as soon as the fire started, then none of this would have happened.” I squeeze his fingers. “I’m sorry I scared everyone.”