Chapter 6 - Blood and Ice
“It’s a graze,” Victor rasped, his teeth gritted as he leaned heavily against the wall. “The bullet took the flesh above the ribs. It went clean through.”
“You drove three hours through a blizzard with a gunshot wound?” I demanded, furious and terrified all at once. “Where is your medic? Why didn't you go to a hospital?”
“Hospitals file police reports. Police reports bring federal agents. Federal agents bring Moretti’s lawyers,” he snapped, though the bite had left his voice, drained by blood loss. “Marcus has a kit in the kitchen. I can stitch it myself.”
“You can’t even lift your arm,” I countered, stepping directly into his space and slipping under his right shoulder to take his weight.
He stiffened, every muscle in his body protesting the contact. For a second, I thought he was going to shove me away. But then his head dipped, his forehead briefly resting against my temple as a wave of dizziness took him. His breath was hot against my neck, smelling of copper and winter.
“You’re stubborn, Harper,” he whispered, his weight bearing down on me.
“One of us has to have some sense,” I retorted. “Come on. Bathroom. Now.”
I guided him down the hall into the main-floor guest bathroom. It was spacious, finished in dark slate and warm wood, with a wide marble vanity. I helped him sit on the edge of the closed porcelain tub.
Marcus appeared in the doorway a moment later, holding a heavy black trauma kit. He looked at me, then at Victor, raising an eyebrow.
“I’ve got him, Marcus,” I said firmly. “Go watch the monitors. Make sure nobody followed him.”
Marcus gave a short, respectful nod, handed me the kit, and pulled the door shut behind him.
The room fell into a heavy, intimate silence, punctuated only by Victor’s shallow breathing.
I knelt between his parted knees. My hands were steady now. I had grown up taking care of my younger siblings in a rough neighborhood; I was no stranger to emergency stitches and blunt trauma.
“Take off the shirt,” I ordered softly.
Victor stared down at me. His gray eyes were dark, dilated with pain, but there was an intensity in them that made my pulse flutter against my ribs. Without a word, he unbuttoned his soaked, ruined dress shirt and peeled it back.
My breath hitched.
His chest was sculpted, scarred, and broad—a roadmap of a violent life. But on his left flank, just beneath his ribs, was a jagged, ugly furrow where a high-caliber round had torn through skin and muscle. Blood was steadily weeping down his abdomen, staining the waistband of his trousers.
“You were lucky,” I murmured, tearing open an antiseptic wipe. “Two inches to the right and you would have punctured a lung.”
“I don't believe in luck,” Victor said.
“I know. You believe in control.” I looked up, meeting his gaze. “This is going to burn.”
“Do it.”
I pressed the antiseptic pad directly to the wound.
Victor didn't scream. He didn't even curse. But his hands shot out, gripping my forearms with bruising strength, his knuckles turning stark white. His head fell back against the wall, a deep, guttural groan vibrating in his chest.
“Breathe,” I whispered, using the same tone I used with Finn. “In. Out. Anchor with me, Victor.”
His eyes snapped open, locking onto mine with an intensity that burned hotter than the alcohol on his skin.
“Don't use your child-psychology tricks on me, Harper,” he ground out through clenched teeth.
“They aren't tricks if they work,” I replied softly, reaching for the curved needle and suture thread. “Look at me. Keep your eyes on mine.”
He did.
May you like
As I pushed the needle through the torn skin, stitching the wound closed with precise, even pulls, Victor Rossi never looked away. He stared directly into my eyes, his fingers still locked around my wrists, anchoring himself not to the wall, not to his empire, but to me.
***