Page 23 of The Woman with the Handcuffs

I’d never broken anything. I mean, I would have sworn I broke my hand once, but my father told me to wait it out. Sure enough, an hour later, I felt fine. And deeply embarrassed about the fuss I’d made.

I guess you could say I was a little dramatic about pain. The first time I got cramps as a teenager, I was certain I was dying. If I stubbed a toe, my whole morning was thrown off.

So I was probably just being my usual over-the-top self about my wrist.

“Is it swelling up?” Gavino asked, making me stop cradling it to hold it out. Not for me to inspect. Oh, no. For him to.

Because getting medical advice from a guy I’d cuffed to a chair made a whole lot of sense.

“It does look like it’s swelling. Can you move it up or down?”

I tried, letting out a sharp cry at the pain that sliced across it.

“Hm. What about grip? Can you pick anything up?”

I lowered my hand down toward the table, spreading my fingers around the top of his cup, but I couldn’t force them to close and tighten.

“Yeah, I think it’s broken.”

“It’s probably not,” I objected. I couldn’t have a broken wrist in the middle of a damn hostage situation. This guy was already twice my size and likely ten times stronger. I couldn’t be one hand down. My good hand at that. “I tend to blow things like this out of proportion. I pulled a hangnail once, and it was so red and painful I went to urgent care.”

Gavino seemed to be fighting a smile at that. “What’d they say?”

“To keep it clean and only come back if it was swollen, red, and oozing.”

He nodded. “I think two things can be true at once. You can be a big baby. And your wrist can be broken.”

Did I bristle at ‘big baby?’ Yep. But I couldn’t exactly deny it either.

“I think it will be fine. The pain usually goes away if I wait it out. Then I feel like an idiot. I just need some ibuprofen.”

“Primary bathroom closet. There should be some elastic bandages there, too, if you want to wrap it. And you should wrap it. Because you’re being stubborn, and it’s fucking broken.”

I didn’t stop to think about why he was being nice to me. I just left him with his legs and one arm cuffed to the chair and made my way down the hallway.

Without the fear and anxiety overwhelming my senses, I noticed things I’d missed before. Like the book on the nightstand, a pen stuck between the pages to serve as a bookmark. The open closet door and the rows of both full suits and casual clothes. The way the spicy scent that clung to his skin filled the whole space. Hypnotic. Dizzying.

I was a bit of a cologne connoisseur. I had a real nose for it. And whatever Gavino used was subtle, layered, and expensive.

Much better than that cheap drugstore crap my ex used to practically bathe in before he came over. The kind that gave me an immediate headache and made me want to shower the second he left so none of it clung to my skin.

No, this was the kind of cologne one just did one spritz of so women wanted to lean in close, to bury their face in your neck, to peel off clothes just to have the scent all over your skin—a sexy little shared secret to linger long after he was gone.

I mean… other women.

Not me.

I didn’t want to lean in and sniff Gavino Costa. No matter how nice he was being to me.

I moved into the primary bathroom, trying not to grow green with envy over his giant shower niche and a tub so deep, I could drown all my worries in it.

Back at my place, I had one of those shower-tub combos. And no matter how many times I scrubbed it, it never seemed to get clean enough for me to be willing to put my bare body against it.

I sighed, going to the cabinet to find Gavino’s medicine. Then finding myself impressed to find a mini pharmacy inside. Not only medicines—which he seemed to have for every ailment—but a huge kit of first aid supplies.

I guess maybe injuries were part of his trade.

My belly flipped, wondering what kind of injuries my father had. If he was hurting. If he was even still alive.