His other hand moved to my chest, pressing gently through the fabric of my shirt. I couldn't suppress a flinch when his fingers found the epicenter of Shaw's bullet impact.
"Your ribs," he said, the words rough. "The vest caught it, but the impact still did damage."
"The bruising is severe. Xander's assault left more damage underneath. I'm a patchwork of injuries right now."
His jaw tightened. "Show me."
I stood carefully, setting the whiskey aside. My fingers worked the buttons of my shirt, each movement sending spikes through bruised ribs. He helped me ease the fabric off, his sharp intake of breath audible at the revealed damage.
The bruising from Shaw's bullet spread across my sternum in purple-black blooms. Beneath it, the yellowing remains of Xander's assault.
"Fuck." His fingers traced the edges of the darkest bruise, feather-light. "Does it hurt?"
"Everything hurts. But I'm alive."
"Barely," he half growled. "If you hadn't been wearing Kevlar..."
"But I was. Because you taught me to always be prepared. Even your paranoia saved me."
He laughed again, this time with a hint of real humor. "My paranoia has its uses."
His hands continued their exploration, mapping each mark with careful touches. When he reached a particularly dark bruise on my ribs from Xander's fists, I couldn't suppress a hiss.
"Bed," he decided. "You can barely stand."
"I can..."
"Bed," he repeated. "I need to know what's mine and what state it's in."
I followed him through the house to his bedroom, which was our bedroom now. The space still carried the scent of our last encounter, but also of the cleaning service's lemon polish and the rain coming through a cracked window. It was real and lived in. It was ours.
"Lie back," he instructed, helping me onto the mattress. The position eased the pressure on my ribs, and relief washed through me. "Better?"
"Yes."
He sat beside me, hands returning to their careful examination of my injuries. "I thought I'd lost you," he said again, voice barely above a whisper. "When you dropped. When you didn't move. I thought..." He stopped, jaw clenching.
"I know."
"That violence. You knew what would happen. You knew what button you were pushing. What I'd become if I thought I'd lost you."
I caught his hand, bringing it to my lips. "I needed that part of you. That darkness. Without it, Shaw would have won."
"Shaw." His eyes hardened. "I need you to understand something. What happened in Macau when I thought you were gone? That person is always there. Under the surface. Waiting."
"I know."
"Do you?" He leaned down, his face inches from mine. "Because that's part of who you're choosing. Not just the CEO. Not just the man who built an empire. But the boy who beat his stepfather to death and experienced nothing but satisfaction."
"I know who you are," I said steadily. "I know what you are. And I want it. All of you. Every version."
He kissed me then, soft and nothing like our usual violence. His hand gripped the back of my head, fingers in my hair but without force. I tasted whiskey and waited for the roughness that didn't come.
The gentleness was worse. Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes before I could stop them, and I was pathetic for crying from a kiss.
He kissed those too.
"I need you," he growled against my skin. "Need to fuck you until you can't remember your own name. Need to fill you so full of my cock you'll taste it. But not..." He gestured at my damaged torso. "Not like usual. I can't put you on your knees where you belong. Can't fold you in half and fuck you like I want."
