“I’m tired of resting.”
Before he can say anything else, my lips press against his. For a second, he freezes. Then he kisses me back, a hand moving to the back of my neck, angling me closer as he deepens the kiss.
Breathing against his lips, I whisper his name softly.
He answers with a low groan, pulling me flush against him. His lips trail down my neck, biting gently, and I arch into him, rubbing myself against his hard length.
“Fuck! What you do to me…Princess.”
A sudden wave of nausea hits me. My hand flies up to my mouth, stifling a gasp. His hand goes still, eyes searching mine. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I lie, forcing a faint smile. “Probably didn’t sleep well.” The excuse sounds weak, even to my own ears. The truth is, for the past few days, I’ve been feeling nauseous. Sometimes, my vision blurs and it takes me a while to get my shit under control...I’ve been ignoring it, convinced it’s because of the blood loss, tiredness, and pain.
“I’ll be fine. The doctor’s coming today to take the stitches out, right? No big deal.”
“No big deal,” he repeats flatly.
And unfortunately, the moment has been officially ruined, thanks to my nausea.
Doctor Jeremy arrives not long after Dominic leaves. Sharon follows him in, shutting the door softly behind them.
“Mrs. Moretti,” he greets, setting his case on the nightstand and sorting out the instruments he needs into a neat row.
“I’ve told you...Please call me Isabella,” I say gently, adjusting myself to a sitting position.
He offers a smile that softens the hard lines of his face, his grey beard twitching with it. “Force of habit,” he says gently, slipping on a pair of gloves. “Are you comfortable?” he adds, looking at me over the rim of his glasses.
“As comfortable as anyone with thread poking out of their skin can be,” I joke, trying not to look at the black sutures under the gauze.
He chuckles under his breath, adjusting the small tray of instruments he’s laid out. “You know…you remind me of Mr. Moretti’s mother.”
My brows lift. “Dominic’s mother?” The only glimpse I’ve ever had of his past and it comes from someone else’s mouth, casually dropped while I’m having my stitches removed.
He’s never told me a single word about her. Well, it’s not exactly like we have some sort of relationship where he’d willingly spill the contents of his life.
The sudden realization that I know nothing beyond what many others already know hits me like a punch to the stomach.
“She had the same fire.” He meets my eyes, then reaches for a small spray bottle. “I can numb the area if you’d like,” he says. “Most superficial stitches come out fine without a local. It’s aquick pinch. But if you’re anxious or the spot’s tender, we’ll use a topical gel for a few minutes.”
“Topical’s fine,” I say. Anything to keep my head clear.
He applies the gel to the area. It works quickly, dulling the sting as he swabs the skin with antiseptic and lifts the first suture with the forceps. “Let me know if it hurts.” He pulls it out in one clean motion. The first tug stings, but it’s more irritation than pain. He places the dark thread neatly on a tray, then moves to the next.
“You’ve healed well,” he says, inspecting the wound. “No signs of infection. Some tenderness is normal, but overall, it looks good.” He cleans the area again with antiseptic before pressing sterile strips across the line. “Mr. Moretti did a perfect job.”
I nod, biting back a sigh of relief. That part, at least, is behind me.
“Is there anything else you need? I was informed you weren’t feeling too good earlier.”
“No. I’m fine. I just… didn’t sleep well last night.”
He studies me for a few seconds before nodding and gathering his stuff into his case. “You need proper rest to heal well,” he reminds me. “I believe that will be all then. Take care of yourself, Mrs. Moretti.”
Rolling my eyes, I correct him again. “Just Isabella…”
He gives a polite nod and walks to the door, with Sharon following behind. When the door closes, and I’m finally alone, I let out a long sigh. There’s a pressure in my temples that just started this morning… despite the painkillers I took, and my stomach has been churning uncomfortably since I had breakfast, but I chalk it up to the feeling of stress from everything lately.
All I need is a change of scenery, instead of being locked in here like some Disney princess, but the thought of leaving this house scares me. What if the men who attacked are still waiting to finish the job? Who sent them, and why? Should I tell my father about it? Would he even care that there was an attempt on my life? He doesn’t have the kind of connections Dominic has, but maybe… maybe he can help.
