Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
I smiled ruefully. I didn’t have the strength to argue. My face felt as if it was on fire, my eye ached, and my shoulder was painful. I glanced to the side, my gaze finding my dress. Or what was left of it. It had torn when I fell, the sleeve ripped and my heel tearing the skirt.
“He ruined my new dress.”
“I’ll buy you another one,” Dante promised. “A hundred of them.”
“When can we leave?”
“Soon,” he promised. “Lie back and shut your eyes. I won’t leave you.”
I grasped his hand, feeling vulnerable and worried. He was too calm. Far too in control. Something felt off. “Promise?” I hated that I sounded like a child, but I was feeling worried.
He bent and kissed my head. “Yes.”
I shut my eyes and gave in to the weariness I was feeling. The drugs they administered took the edge off the pain but made me tired. Dante’s large hand held mine, his thumb stroking over my skin. I dozed, rousing often to find Dante beside me, staring, unmoving, and looking as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders. The doctor came in and spoke with him in Italian, Dante asking a lot of questions. I was too tired to try to keep up, and soon I felt myself being lifted into his arms. “What’s happening?” I asked, confused.
“I’m taking you home. Go back to sleep.”
I rested my head against his chest. He held me carefully, keeping my bruised face and shoulder untouched. I heard a low conversation, and I recognized the other voice, but I was too weary to try to participate. I was in and out, held in the warmth of Dante’s embrace. I felt the motion of a vehicle, heard more talking, and finally inhaled the scent I had come to love. Dante’s cologne saturated the bed he laid me on, the sheets soft, the mattress cradling my sore body.
I reached out, and he lifted my head. “Drink.”
The water was cool and refreshing, washing away the bitter taste in my mouth. “Don’t go.”
“I’m not, Little Bee. I’ll be right here.”
I felt the mattress dip and his warmth settle behind me. “I’ll watch over you,” he murmured.
I sighed, the sound low and weary. “I love you.”
The words slipped out without thought or planning. They were just there, hanging in the air, unexpected.
He pressed his lips to my temple.
“I know.”
I woke the next day, the room dim. I was alone, but I knew Dante had been there. I could sense him. The water in the glass was cold, and I sat up, sipping it gratefully. I carefully slipped from the bed and shuffled to the bathroom, looking in the mirror. The left side of my face was bruised, my eye swollen. Purple, red, and black stood out against the pallor of my skin. I had a long scrape from where Winters’s ring had dragged along my cheek, cutting into the flesh. I shrugged out of the hospital gown I was still wearing. My shoulder matched my face, mottled with bruises and sore. I touched around my eye and scalp. I had a headache from the general pain, but my scalp wasn’t sore to the touch.
“No concussion,” Dante said from the doorway. “Your shoulder is going to be a bitch for a while, though.”
I met his gaze. He looked exhausted. Resigned. Sad.
“He packed quite a wallop,” I agreed.
Dante came forward. “If his fist hadn’t glanced off my shoulder first, it would have been much worse. I don’t even want to think about the condition of your eyesight if that had happened.” He leaned behind me, resting his chin on my head. “Richard wouldn’t have been able to stop me from killing him.”
“Don’t say that.”
He shrugged. “It’s true. I have never experienced rage like that.”
“Where is he?”
Again, he lifted his shoulders. “Richard said he pushed him away and left. Went away to nurse his wounds.”
“What now?” I asked, sensing his turmoil.
“Now you go back to bed.”
“I want a shower. I want to wash off the hospital smell and—” I swallowed “—him.”
He immediately turned on the water, letting it heat. He discarded his clothes, holding out his hand. He drew me into the warm spray, and I winced as it hit my skin. He adjusted the shower heads so none struck my face or shoulder, and he helped me get clean. He insisted I sit while he washed my hair, his fingers gentle as he worked the shampoo and conditioner through my tangles. When we were done, he wrapped me in a towel and took me back to the bedroom. I slipped into a T-shirt and leggings, and he tucked me back into bed, carefully rubbing some cream into my skin. “This will help with the pain and heal the bruises,” he explained.
I winced as his finger grazed over the thin cut, the area ultrasensitive. “I’m sorry, Little Bee,” he murmured. “I’m trying not to hurt you.”