God, the sight of him is never going to get old. He’s all muscle and masculine strength, his body a map of destruction and battles long past, hidden beneath the ink. And across his left pec is a gash at least six inches long, deep enough that blood still seeps sluggishly from it to ooze down his chest and washboard abs.
My stomach flips. “This needs stitches.”
“I’m fine,” he says too casually.
“You’re not fine. You’ll get an infection if you don’t take care of this.” My voice sharpens with urgency. “I’m calling a doctor.”
“I don’t need a doctor.”
“Well, unless you’d rather I stitch you up, that’s your only option.”
I threw the suggestion out there more as a joke to make a doctor sound like the right choice, but something flickers in Sandro’s eyes—surprise again, maybe even amusement.
“You?”
I shouldn’t push my luck, but something about the skepticism in his voice brings out my stubborn side. And before I can think better of it, my chin tips up. “You don’t think I know how?”
For a second, he just stares at me, like he’s trying to read the truth in my eyes. Then he leans back, bracing his palms against the counter, his lips quirking faintly. “If it means that much to you, Sunshine, then have at it.”
Relief crashes over me, swiftly followed by nerves. “Right,” I say, turning to face the cabinets as I scramble to recall where I put the small pack of medical supplies I brought from home. Thank goodness my parents insisted on lessons in practical skills—sewing, cooking, first aid. They said a good mafia wife should know how to keep a house running and a husband alive. I never thought I’d use the medical training. But here I am.
My hands tremble as I scrub them clean as best I can, then dig through the first aid kit and set each item—thread, needle,antiseptic—onto the counter. I don’t know what I was thinking, offering up my services like I’m some kind of professional. I’ve definitely never done anything likethis, even if I’m capable in theory. Taking a slow, steadying breath, I straighten and try to force my fingers not to shake while I prepare the suture needle.
Sandro watches me struggle, his expression unreadable, though a faint glint of curiosity brightens his hematite eyes. “How many men have you stitched up before?”
Heat floods my cheeks, and I swallow hard. “None.”
“None?” He raises a brow, his lips twitching.
Dropping my hands, I release a shaky breath and practically implore him, “Now would you rather I call a doctor? I’m sure they would do a better job. They’d at least have anesthetic.”
He huffs a laugh, low and amused. “I don’t need anesthetic.”
Of course he doesn’t.
“You’ve got this.”
The vote of confidence is surprisingly touching—even if it does little to bolster my confidence. And for several agonizing seconds, we stare at each other in a silent game of chicken, neither willing to back down. But I’m not going to win this battle, and I know it. And in the meantime, Sandro will only lose more blood the longer I hold out, hoping he’ll change his mind.
“Fine,” I mutter. “don’t move.”
He doesn’t, his eyes following me as I step between his knees to get close enough to clean his wound. A soft hiss rushing between his teeth is the only reaction I get as I wipe the oozing cut withantiseptic-soaked gauze. I cringe at the thought that I’m causing him unnecessary pain.
“Sorry,” I murmur, my eyes flicking up to search his face.
“It’s fine,” he assures me, his expression stoic. “Just didn’t expect it to be so cold.”
Cold? Really?Of all the things he could complain about right now. I fight the urge to roll my eyes as I finish cleaning the cut and take a fresh piece of gauze to dab up the remaining blood surrounding the split edges of his skin.
Then I poise the needle over his chest. My heart hammers, sweat prickling my neck. “Ready?” I whisper.
“You’ll do fine,” he says, utterly calm.
The fact thathe’sthe one reassuringmein this moment almost makes me want to laugh—or cry. I’m not entirely sure, but the pressure in my chest is enough to bring tears to my eyes. I need to get ahold of myself if I’m going to do this right. Closing my eyes, I visualize the suture pads I’ve practiced on countless times, recalling the pressure it took to penetrate the various layers, the feel of them giving beneath my hand, the curve of the needle as I brought the pieces together.
Taking a last fortifying breath, I brace my left palm on his solid chest, holding the torn flesh steady, and guide the needle to the corner of the wound. The first puncture makes my stomach twist, but I swallow down the nausea and force myself to keep going. In, out, loop, knot, cut. In, out, loop, knot, cut. And as the rhythm sets in, my hands begin to steady. My breath evens, my mind focusing.
Shockingly, Sandro doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even tense. His body might as well be carved from stone, his hands lightly gripping the edge of the counter, his abs relaxed but still pronounced beneath his tattooed flesh. He’s probably quite used to needles, now that I think about it. But I imagine a tattoo needle would be far less painful than having an amateur stitching up already inflamed skin.
