Aurora blinked up at me, stunned. “For a paper cut?”
“Yes.”
“No,” she said firmly, trying to pull her hand back. I didn’t let her.
“Yes,” I repeated, voice low and final. My thumb kept stroking beside the cut, as if I could wipe away the injury with sheer will.
She stared at me like I’d lost my mind. Maybe I had.
“Santino, it’s literally nothing. I’ve had worse cuts making dinner at home.”
I didn’t care. The sight of her blood, even this tiny amount, did something primal and ugly to me. My chest felt too tight. The same darkness that lived in me every day roared louder at the thought of her hurting. Even a little. Even by her own hand.
I brought her palm to my mouth and pressed my lips to the cut, tasting the faint metallic tang of her blood. Her breath hitched.
“You don’t hurt in this house,” I said against her skin, voice rough. “Not even a drop. Not while I’m breathing. And not unless I’m doing it to you.”
The room had gone completely still again. Matteo’s fork was frozen halfway to his mouth. The cook looked like he wanted to disappear into the pantry. Marco was watching me with a knowing, slightly concerned expression.
Aurora’s cheeks flushed deep pink. “You’re being insane right now.”
“I don’t care.” I finally released her wrist only to wrap my arm around her waist and pull her against my chest. “Marco. Medic. Now.”
Marco sighed but moved toward the hallway, still smirking. “You’re whipped, boss.”
“Say it again and I’ll shoot you.”
Aurora let out a soft, disbelieving laugh against my shirt. “It’s a tiny cut. I’m fine.”
“You’re mine,” I said quietly, only for her. My hand slid into her hair, holding her close. “That means nothing touches you. Not knives. Not accidents. Not even gravity if I can help it.”
She pulled back just enough to look up at me, eyes soft and a little overwhelmed. “You’re really going to call a doctor for this?”
“I’m going to burn the knife if it makes you feel better.”
Her lips twitched. Despite everything, a small smile broke through. “You’re ridiculous.”
I brushed my thumb over her bottom lip. “And you’re going to sit down while someone else finishes the fruit salad. No more bleeding today, Aurora. I mean it.”
She rolled her eyes, but she didn’t fight me when I guided her back to the table. I kept her injured hand in mine the entire time, gently stroking the uninjured skin around the cut.
Pathetic.
I was becoming completely, irreversibly pathetic for this girl.
The medic arrived within twelve minutes.
Dr. Alessandro Salvatori strode into the kitchen carrying his black leather bag with the quiet confidence of a man who had seen far worse than a paper cut.
In his early forties, the doctor was annoyingly handsome, tall, dark-haired with a touch of silver at the temples, sharp jawline, and the kind of calm, piercing green eyes that probably made half his female patients forget their symptoms. He had stitched me up more times than I cared to count and knew better than to test my patience.
He took one look at Aurora’s palm, then at me, and wisely kept his expression professionally neutral.
“It’s barely a scratch, Signore Moretti,” he said in his smooth, cultured voice as he gently cleaned the cut.
“I don’t care,” I replied, standing behind Aurora with my hands firmly on her shoulders. “Bandage it properly.”
Aurora sighed dramatically but let the doctor work. “You’re being completely ridiculous. I feel like I got shot and no one told me.”
