Page 15 of Sexted By a Stranger

Sheila

The car reeked of blood and gunpowder, a nauseating cocktail that made my stomach churn. Luca's head rested heavily on my lap, his forehead burning with an alarming fever that seared through the fabric of my dress.

The ragged bullet hole below his left shoulder blade gaped obscenely with each labored breath.

The torn flesh around the wound's edges seemed to pulse with his heartbeat, dark blood seeping steadily through layer after layer of hastily applied gauze.

My hands trembled as I pressed another compress against it, feeling the warmth of his life literally slipping through my fingers.

The wheels ground through the wrought-iron gates of the manor entrance and lurched to a stop so abruptly I had to brace myself to keep Luca from sliding.

Lennox yanked open the rear door, and the crisp scent of grass and earth rushed in—a cruel mockery of normalcy that couldn't begin to mask the suffocating stench of blood and smoke trapped in the vehicle.

Every bump in the road had made Luca's brows knit tighter in unconscious agony, his jaw clenching even in his fevered delirium.

"Move! Now!" Lennox's voice cracked like a whip, tight with barely controlled panic.

He worked with several nurses who'd been waiting at the entrance, their movements practiced and efficient as they maneuvered Luca's limp form from the car onto a waiting gurney.

His large frame looked somehow diminished, vulnerable in a way that made my chest constrict painfully.

I stumbled out after them, my legs like water, threatening to give out with each step.

But my eyes remained locked on that unconscious figure as they wheeled him swiftly through the manor's halls into a brightly lit room at the far end—a fully equipped home surgical suite that spoke volumes about the dangerous life Luca led.

The doctor was already scrubbed and waiting, his face a mask of professional focus.

He snapped on sterile gloves and immediately began cutting away the blood-soaked fabric clinging to Luca's chest. When he peeled away the last stubborn piece stuck to the wound, even in his deep unconsciousness, Luca's entire body went rigid.

A broken, guttural sound escaped his throat—raw and primal—as cold sweat beaded instantly across his forehead.

His muscles spasmed violently from the pain, cords standing out in his neck.

I gasped, my nails digging crescents into my palms hard enough to draw blood, using that sharp sting to keep myself from falling apart completely.

The doctor's expression grew grimmer as he worked with practiced efficiency. Within minutes, he extracted a blood-slicked bullet with forceps, dropping it into a metal pan with a sickening clink.

Watching the gauze on his chest rapidly bloom crimson, soaking through faster than they could replace it, filled me with a bone-deep terror of witnessing life drain away before my eyes.

I bit down hard on my lower lip, tasting copper, desperately trying to swallow the sob clawing its way up my throat.

The room filled with nothing but the cold metallic sounds of surgical instruments, the doctor's clipped orders to his assistants, and Luca's labored breathing that seemed to grow shallower by the minute.

When the final suture was tied off and thick sterile dressings covered the angry wound, the doctor finally straightened, peeling off his blood-stained gloves with a snap.

"Lucky it missed his heart," he said, his voice betraying the close call as he handed several syringes to the waiting nurse. Then he pressed a bottle of pills into my shaking hands. "Monitor his temperature and blood pressure constantly. When he wakes, get these into him immediately."

After they'd changed Luca into a clean hospital gown, the doctor and nurses filed out, leaving us alone. The heavy door clicked shut softly, sealing us in blessed silence.

I stood frozen beside the bed, staring down at his ashen face.

Sweat had plastered his dark hair to his forehead in damp strands.

Those eyes that were always so sharp and penetrating were sealed shut, his normally firm mouth pale and cracked.

Even unconscious, the deep lines of pain and ingrained wariness never left his features.

My chest felt like it was being crushed in a vice.

I staggered into the adjoining bathroom and cranked on the cold water.

The icy stream over my fingers brought a shock of clarity.

After wringing out a cold cloth, I returned to his bedside, carefully avoiding the thick bandages at his shoulder and neck as I gently pressed the cool fabric to his burning forehead.

My fingers trembled as I tried to smooth away the deep furrows carved between his brows.

"Luca." I leaned closer, my voice hoarse and barely more than a whisper. "Can you hear me? It's me, Sheila."

Only his ragged breathing answered me.

The tears I'd been fighting surged up again, hot and unstoppable.

That's when his right hand shot up, clamping around my wrist like a burning vise.

I gasped at the pain but didn't dare pull away, terrified of aggravating his wound.

His thick lashes fluttered violently, cracked lips moving urgently as fevered words tumbled out.

"Sheila, stellina, run! Get out!"

"Danger, run…"

"Go, now…"

Each broken plea was saturated with raw terror.

The dam finally burst. Tears streamed down my face as understanding crashed over me.

This powerful, enigmatic man who seemed invincible—in his delirium, his only thought was my safety. This pure, selfless protection that disregarded his own life was branded into my very soul, more binding than any vow could ever be.

"Luca, I'm here," I choked out, using every ounce of strength to turn my trapped hand and interlace our fingers tightly. Our palms pressed together with desperate force, as if I could channel all my strength, all my warmth, my very life force through that connection.

His delirious rambling continued in broken fragments, each word slicing through me like shrapnel.

I love this man.

I loved the vulnerable softness beneath his granite exterior, loved the heart that beat so wildly for me inside that powerful frame.

"I'm not running." I lowered myself carefully, resting my cheek against the uninjured side of his chest.

"You idiot." My voice was thick with tears as they rolled silently down my cheeks. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

"You'd throw your life away for me, so I'm staying right here with you."

I clung to his burning hand like it was my only anchor in a storm-tossed sea.

A subtle tremor beneath my fingertips jolted me awake.

My bleary gaze collided with a pair of deep brown eyes slowly blinking open. Exhaustion from his ordeal clouded their depths, but that penetrating intensity remained undimmed.

"Luca!" The word burst out in a rush of overwhelming relief that left me dizzy, stealing the breath from my lungs. Instinct screamed at me to leap up and get the doctor, but my body—stiff and numb from hours of holding vigil—betrayed me. My knees buckled, nearly sending me sprawling.

"Sheila." His voice was like gravel scraping over broken glass, devastatingly hoarse. His uninjured right hand had somehow found its way to cover mine, where it clutched desperately at his hospital gown.

The warmth of his palm seeped through my skin, thawing the ice that had encased my heart for the past twenty-four hours of terror.

"It's okay," he repeated, his gaze heavy and searching as it roamed my face, those deep brown pools swirling with unspoken words. He was checking me over, confirming I was unharmed, while simultaneously trying to soothe a frightened bird. "Just a scratch."

"A scratch?" Fresh tears spilled over, all my pent-up fear and anguish pouring out.

"That was a special bullet. It almost… almost hit your heart.

You lost so much blood… your fever wouldn't break…

How can you call that a scratch?" My voice fractured into pieces, like a child who'd finally found safety after being lost and could unleash all their terror and hurt.

"Don't cry." He exhaled softly, his brow furrowing almost imperceptibly at my tears, as if each droplet caused him more agony than the vicious wound in his shoulder. His hand on mine, though weak, began to pull with stubborn insistence.

He drew my trembling hand—drew all of me—inexorably closer.

I blinked through my tears, watching in bewilderment as his sharply defined face filled my vision.

His warm lips brushed feather-light just below my left eye, catching a tear before it could fall, kissing away its salt with infinite tenderness.

That gentle touch sent an uncontrollable shiver racing to my fingertips. All the overwhelming fear, terror, and relief seemed to dissolve beneath that single, reverent kiss.

He pulled back slightly. "No more tears."

Each word fell like a stone into the still water of my heart, sending ripples through my entire being.

"Does it still hurt?" My gaze drifted back to the thick bandages at his shoulder.

The corner of his mouth twitched up in the faintest suggestion of a smile, somehow managing to radiate lazy sensuality despite everything.

His thumb, callused and warm where it rested over my hand, began a slow, deliberate stroke along the sensitive skin of my inner wrist, sending tiny electric shocks up my arm.

"It hurts," he admitted readily, voice rough as sandpaper, but his eyes blazed into mine with unmistakable intent.

That look, those words, the lingering caress of his fingers—they were all wordless invitations that suddenly made the air too thin, too hot to breathe properly.

I bit my lip, carefully climbing onto the bed, straddling him with deliberate care to avoid his injury.

His eyes flared, like smoldering coals, tracking every move.

I leaned down, hands braced on either side of his shoulders, and kissed him, my lips soft against his.

This time, I deepened it, my tongue mimicking the rhythm he'd taught me.