But instead—his fingers slid gently behind my neck.
Careful.
He pressed lightly against the fresh welt at the base of my skull, and I couldn’t stop the sharp hiss that escaped me at the contact.
His touch stilled.
For a second.
Then softened.
“Sit on the chair,” he ordered.
Quieter now. But still firm.
I forced myself to move.
Every muscle protested.
Every step sent sharp, biting pain through my back and ribs.
My knee wobbled, threatening to give out again, and I had to grip the edge of the chair to steady myself before lowering down.
I sank into it slowly.
Then folded in on myself.
Knees drawn to my chest.
Arms wrapped tightly around my body as if I could physically hold the pieces together.
“Stay here,” Vincenzo said.
Then his footsteps retreated, fading into the distance.
The room fell into total silence, heavy and absolute.
Barely two minutes later, footsteps returned.
I didn’t need to look up to know who it was.
Vincenzo approached with a first aid kit, every step measured.
He crouched in front of my chair and opened it with quiet precision, the soft click of the latches breaking the tense stillness.
I tensed, disbelief coiling in my chest.
There was no way—the cold, ruthless Vincenzo, the man who hated me with a passion that could burn cities—was here to patch up my wounds?
No.
That wouldn’t even happen in hell.
He reached for my legs.
His hands were warm as they settled around my shins, gently guiding my legs outward from where I had curled them in tight.
The contact sent an unexpected jolt through me—not pain this time, but something almost unfamiliar.
