And Rocco grins—a feral, bloody smile. “With pleasure, Boss.”
Chapter 25
Darkness. Heavy. Thick. Pressing. My head throbs—sharp and deep, like something is trying to split it open from the inside. A soft beep echoes somewhere near my ear. Hospital machines, I realize slowly. But none of it matters.
Because the moment I remember the SUV flipping—Rocco’s blood—the sound of Alessandro screaming my name. My chest seizes.
“Alessandro,” I croak out, too soft, too weak.
I blink hard, forcing my vision to focus, searching the shadows of the dim room.
There—a broad silhouette slumped in a chair near the wall, head bowed, shoulders tight even in sleep.
My husband. A strangled sob escapes me. His head snaps up instantly.
“Elena?” His voice is raw, cracked, as if he’s been swallowing broken glass.
Then he’s at my side—moving faster than I’ve ever seen him—hands trembling as he cups my face, my shoulders, my hair, as if trying to confirm I’m real.
“Dove—Jesus—Dove,” he breathes, kissing my forehead, my cheek, the back of my hand. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
I wince at the movement, but my heart aches more at the torment in his eyes.
“Alessandro,” I whisper, pushing my hand up to his cheek. “You have nothing to apologize for.”
His eyes squeeze shut, like the words physically hurt him.
“You were hurt—because of me. Because you were with Rocco. Because—”
“Stop,” I whisper, brushing my thumb along his jaw. “I needed you and you came. That’s all that matters.”
He stares at me like he’s trying to memorize my face. Like he’s afraid I’ll vanish.
“Come here,” I whisper.
His brows pull together. “Elena, I—I can’t. You’re hurt. I’ll—”
“I need you to hold me,” I breathe, voice cracking. “Please.”
That breaks him.
He exhales shakily, then carefully, slowly, he shifts onto the bed. One arm goes under my shoulders, the other wraps around my waist, pulling me against his chest as if I’m something fragile and priceless.
I melt into him.
His scent—smoke, cedar, Alessandro—grounds me immediately.
His breath hits the top of my head in uneven bursts. He’s shaking. My fierce husband. My hurricane.
He holds me like he’s terrified someone might rip me from his arms.
“You scared the hell out of me, Dove,” he murmurs, voice barely holding together.
“I know,” I whisper.
Eventually his breathing steadies. The tension in his muscles loosens. His grip remains tight, but he finally falls asleep with his face buried against my hair.
Time blurs. The door clicks softly.
