“You’re fussing,” he murmurs.
“I’m preventing infection,” I say sharply.
“You’re trembling,duci.”
I huff, ignoring the curious prickling behind my eyes. “Because I’m angry.”
“At me?” He chases my gaze, but I keep it pinned to the gash I’m cleaning.
“At them. And yeah, maybe at you,” I admit, voice cracking. “At the fact that you stepped in front of?—”
He catches my wrist gently. “Lucia.”
“What?” I snap.
His thumb strokes once, slow. “The evening has been a little… trying. But I need you to breathe,amuri,” he croons.
I hate that it works. I drag in air, shaky and uneven, then reach for another square of antiseptic gauze in the first aid kit with hands that refuse steadiness.
Giovanni leans against the counter, letting me do this, letting me tend him, and the surrender in that alone is almost too much.
“You’re not supposed to be hurt,” I mutter.
He lifts a brow, his mouth twitching. “Says who?”
“Says me.”
His mouth curves. “Ah. Then it must be law.”
I press antiseptic to his skin. He doesn’t flinch.
“Show-off.”
“I’m trying to impress my wife.”
“I’m already impressed,” I say before I can stop myself.
His eyes sharpen, but I keep my focus on the bandage as my hands shake again.
Damn it.
Giovanni’s fingers close over mine, stilling them completely. He lifts my knuckles, kisses them with quiet reverence.
The tenderness almost undoes me more than the violence.
“Don’t,” I whisper.
“Don’t what?”
“Look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I matter.”
His gaze holds mine. “You matter more than anything. If I haven’t proven that conclusively and thoroughly, I’m doing something seriously wrong.”
My throat tightens and I blink hard, furious with myself as Giovanni’s voice drops, rougher.
