She exhaled a shaky, fragile sound — half relief, half emotion she didn’t seem to know where to put. Then she stepped closer, burying herself in my chest, arms wrapping around me.
I held her tight, tighter than I’d held anyone in years, because now that the danger was gone, the fear hit me:
I could have lost her.
And I couldn’t lose her.
Not now.
Not ever.
Gia shook in my arms as she started to cry. I rubbed her back, trying to soothe her. “It’s all over now. You’re safe.”
After a few moments, her body relaxed and she pulled back to look up at me. Her face was splotchy and red, her eyes swollen and glistening with tears. She was still the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. I cupped her face in both my hands and kissed her.
The urge to tell her how I felt made my chest tighten. I wanted to tell her that she meant more to me than just a charge I was paid to protect; that I wanted her long after we left the cabin.
But I didn’t. I kept it locked away like I always did, afraid to be vulnerable and put my heart at risk.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she said, swiping the tears from her cheeks.
We went back upstairs, stepping over the pile of bodies at the foot of the staircase. “I’ll take care of that later.”
Gia gasped when we entered the cabin. I frowned.
The cabin was trashed. Snow was tracked all over the floor and almost all the furniture was overturned. The front door was left open, allowing the cold air to come inside.
“Assholes,” I grumbled as I went to shut the door. Gia followed, lighting the fireplace to help combat the chill that had settled in the cabin.
I started righting the furniture until Gia stated, “Worry about that later. Sit.”
My ribs ached. The gunshot wound throbbed in rhythm with my pulse. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. I shot you.” She went to the hall closet with purpose, grabbing the first-aid kit. When she returned, her hands were trembling, but she knelt in front of me with more steadiness than I expected.
I rolled my eyes, snorting with exasperation.
“Take your shirt off,” she demanded.
I raised a brow. “You could say please.”
She glared — the soft, terrified kind — and I obeyed.
The cold air hit my skin, and the sting of the wound flared. She inhaled sharply when her eyes ran over the bruises already forming on my body.
“Enzo,” her bottom lip trembled. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”
“No, it’s not. Well, except for the gunshot wound.”
Groaning, she buried her face in my chest. I laughed, “I’m just teasing you. You did good, kid.”
Pulling back, she brought her gaze to mine. “I really am sorry.”
I smirked. “I know.”
She let out a small sigh as she picked up my arm and examined the bullet wound. “Is it still in there?”
I lifted my arm to look at the underside of my bicep. “No exit wound so yep.”
