“Damiano.” I try to call his attention, but he is laser-focused on Julian, who is still holding the handheld shower with the water running, pooling around us. When it reaches the cuts under my feet, I gasp in pain.
“Ouch,” their attention finally turns to me.
“I said leave.” Damiano hisses, and the intensity of his anger catches me off guard. His eyes narrow and his lips curl into a snarl as Julian turns to me.
"She needs help cleaning her wounds," Julian snaps.
Their dislike for each other was no secret; Julian had long insisted Damiano was bad news. The realization that Julian had known all along who Damiano really was, but never warned me,is a slap in the face. I sigh and try to push the disappointment aside.
“You both can leave. I can do it alone. ” I say mostly to Julian, not wanting to deal with the tension anymore. When he doesn't respond, I tug his hand to get his attention.
“I’m okay, just leave me here,” I say.
He looks at me for a long beat before nodding. When he walks out of the bathroom, I expect Damiano to follow him, but he doesn’t move.
He glares at me as if all his patience has run out.
“What do you want?” I say, closing my eyes, physically shutting him out as my exhaustion catches up with me. When I hear the rustling of fabric, my eyes snap open to see him shrugging out of his black shirt.
“What the hell are you doing?” I snap, my frown deepening.
“You can’t do this alone. Your shoulder is useless, and your feet are cut to ribbons. I’m not going to leave you to fall.”
He pulls his shirt over his head, revealing the tattooed landscape of his chest. The art is a mix of intricate blackwork of angels, script, and thorns. I’ve seen him shirtless many times before, but it somehow still makes me speechless. As my eyes cling to the familiar ink and muscle, they snag on a raised marking on his upper right shoulder I’ve never noticed before—a bullet scar.
He walks over to me, his gaze focused on my feet. When he crouches to reach for my ankles, I pry them away in protest, saying, “Idon’tneed your help.”
He remains silent, completely unbothered.
“You’ll hurt yourself more,” he says calmly after a beat, putting a firm but gentle hold on my ankle.
He stares at them, examining each wound before saying, “Take your shirt off.” I freeze.
“What?!”
He reaches for the buckles of the black medical immobilizer strapped over my chest, his fingers brushing my collarbone in the process. When he looks me in the eyes, his voice drops, the command replaced by a low plea.
"I need to take this off. Can I?”
Chapter 14
Katarina
The abrupt shift from his commanding presence to this quiet request for consent twists my stomach.
He’s giving me a choice.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I nod.
His fingers are careful as he releases the immobilizer's straps. The relief in my shoulder is instant, but so is the fresh throb of pain from the shift in my posture. He peels the wet shirt over my head agonizingly slow, guiding my left arm free first, then he eases the fabric down my injured right arm like I’m made of glass.
When the shirt hits the wet floor with a soft slap, damp air kisses my skin, and Damiano’s gaze drops to my bare chest.
For one heartbeat, he stares. His eyes trace every bruise, every curve, every inch of bare skin now exposed to him. I watch something shift in his expression—the careful mask cracking, replaced by a raw, familiar hunger. The same look he used to get the moment he saw me naked during all those months of fake-dating.
One look at me bare, and he loses it. A dark thrill mixes with the fear and anger in my mind.
He exhales sharply through his nose and runs a hand through his hair.
