The corner of his mouth lifts. “Have you always talked so much?”
“Yep. What about you? Have you always been this dumb?” I fire back, taking a step closer despite myself. “Where’s Rafe?”
“Checking the perimeter,” he responds.
“And you’re just . . . bleeding out for fun?”
His gaze holds mine for a beat before he turns away without answering and walks toward the hallway.
For some reason, I find myself following him . . .I hate my body.
After a few more seconds, he stops and pushes open a door. It’s dim inside, and I can’t see much before he shuts the door behind us, making it even darker.
A shiver runs up my spine.
Lorenzo moves to a cabinet, opens it, and pulls out a clean cloth, antiseptic, and gauze. He acts like it’s just another day, but what kind of man stores this stuff in a cabinet in a study?
A bad man who needs to . . .
I try to swallow down that thought as he moves.
“I can—” I start and then stop. Do I offer to help or not? I’m at a loss. “You don’t have to . . .”
Lorenzo’s eyes flick up. “Don’t start.”
“I wasn’t starting,” I lie, stepping closer anyway. “I was . . .”
His mouth twitches. “You were what?” He peels his sweater up and off his head, and all words die on my tongue.
I suck in a breath.
A shallow slice sits alongside his ribs. It’s angry and red and stitched poorly. A bruise is blossoming around it.
My stomach turns, and my mind does something traitorous.
It imagines my hands there.
Bandaging.
Touching.
Helping.
I clamp down on the thought so hard it feels like biting my own tongue.
Lorenzo presses the cloth to the wound, jaw flexing. He doesn’t flinch and doesn’t even make a sound. But of course, he doesn’t. The man is barely human.
“You’re going to reopen it,” I mutter, voice tight.
“Are you offering medical advice?”
“I’m offering basic logic.” I step closer, then stop, because closing the distance feels dangerous in a way I can’t name.
He reaches for the antiseptic. His fingers are steady, but there’s a faint tension in his wrist. Maybe it does hurt . . . and he’s just refusing to admit it.
My throat tightens around something I don’t want to feel. “Who did this?” I ask before I can stop myself.
His gaze goes flat. “Business.”
