The thought hits me like a slap.
No.
He wouldn't.
He's injured. He can barely stand. He's in my bathroom, in my apartment, with a bullet wound in his side.
He wouldn't be...
Would he?
My face burns.
I back away from the door. One step. Two.
Stop it. You're being ridiculous. He probably just moved wrong and pulled his stitches. That's all. That's the only explanation.
I retreat to the living room. Sit on the couch. Stare at the wall.
My mind won't stop racing.
The groan I heard. The way his voice sounded after. Rough. Breathless.
Like he'd just?—
No.
I press my palms against my eyes.
Stop. Thinking. About. It.
Two minutes pass. Maybe three.
The bathroom door opens.
I look up.
And immediately wish I hadn't.
Dante stands in the hallway. Water droplets cling to his chest, his shoulders, his arms. His dark hair is wet, pushed back from his face.
He's wearing a towel.
Just a towel.
And it's small. Too small. The kind of towel meant for drying hands, not wrapping around a grown man's waist.
It barely covers him. The fabric stretches tight across his hips, riding low enough that I can see the V of muscle that disappears beneath the edge. The hem hits mid-thigh at best.
And there's a shape.
A very obvious shape.
Right where his?—
I look away. Fast.
Not fast enough.
