Page 71 of Vicious Behaviors

“Sit,” she says, closing the door behind us and pulling down the blinds.

I settle on the edge ofNonno’sdesk, watching her every move. It’s only when I see her rummage through the first aid kit that I finally speak.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” she mutters as if that explains anything. She then sets the kit down beside me and flips it open. “Every night I see them helping whoever you pummel with your fists, but I never see anyone rush to help you.”

“That’s because I don’t need help.”

“Well, tonight you do. You’re bleeding.”

Am I?

And that’s when I feel it. Hot blood sliding down my brow like sweat.

Guess Benny’s one punch was enough to do damage.

“I’m fine,” I say, starting to rise.

But I freeze the second her hand lands on my bare chest. Warm. Gentle. Her palm anchors me like it belongs there.

“You’re not fine,” she murmurs, as if I were a stubborn child. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s just a flesh wound,” I whisper, dropping my gaze from her face. It hurts to look at her sometimes, and I don’t know why.

“Well, that flesh wound’s going to get infected if no one handles it properly. Now just… stay still.”

I don’t know what her game is, but I do as she says. Maybe I’m too tired to argue. Or maybe I want her close. Even if only for a minute.

She steps between my legs and begins dabbing at my brow, her fingers steady, and her breath soft. The sting of antiseptic barely registers. Pain isn’t what does me in. It’s everything else that confounds me.

Her lips press together in frustration, unable to contain the blood. “Damn it,” she huffs. “We need to take you to a hospital.”

“No hospitals.”

“Can you stop being so damn macho for like two seconds? You need stitches.”

“I said no hospitals. There’s a stapler gun. Use that.”

She exhales sharply and digs through the first aid kit again. Sure enough, she finds the surgical skin stapler at the bottom, her brow lifting in dry surprise.

“Of course, Carmine would have stocked one of these. I bet this happens to you a lot.”

“On occasion.”

“Right.” She laughs, her genuine smile making an appearance.

I study her face, her mouth, her hands. Every part of her focused on tending to a man she shouldn’t care about. A man she is currently trying to build a case against and throw behind bars. But still, here she is, being kind to me. Aside from my family, I can’t remember the last person who showed me any type of kindness. It’s… troubling.

I remain tight-lipped as Izzie continues to disinfect the wound with careful hands, then staples it shut with precision. One. Two. Three. Clean and efficient, as if she’d done it a million times before.

Perhaps she has. I’m sure she had to patch up more than a few fellow soldiers when she was in the army. I’m sure she’s seen worse than a busted eyebrow, too. I’ve watched her enough to know she can hold her own, but this is one of the few times I’ve seen a softer side of her—one that cares.

Once she’s satisfied, she places a small bandage over the wound, but she doesn’t move away. Instead, she lifts my chin gently, making me look deep into those eyes—the same ones I’ve been trying so painstakingly hard to avoid.

“Why do you do it?” she asks.

“Do what?”