When She Loves (The Fallen, #4)(42)

“You’re not. This will only take a few seconds. Breathe, Cleo. I know you’re strong enough to handle this.”

She darts her hand out and wraps it over my knee before giving me the smallest of nods. “Do it.”

I bring the needle closer and pierce her skin. She winces but keeps breathing deeply like I told her to.

“Good girl,” I murmur. “Just keep breathing.”

The pace of her breathing speeds up. Her fingernails dig into my leg, but I don’t show any sign of pain. If she needs to use me as her stress ball, she’s more than welcome to do it.

I work as fast as I can to sew her up. It only takes me about ten minutes before I’m snipping the last thread.

I put everything away on the nightstand. “All done.”

Slowly, she peels her eyes open. “Thanks.”

What is she thanking me for? “I’m the one who got you into this mess.”

She stares at me and swallows. “It wasn’t your fault,” she says. “Don’t blame yourself. I forced your hand by showing up to dinner in that dress. If I hadn’t, we would have been driven by Sandro, and the hitmen probably wouldn’t have attacked if the restaurant had been filled with other patrons.”

I place my hand over hers and lace our fingers together. “I liked that dress.”

Surprise slips into her expression before it morphs into wry amusement. “Admit it, you’re glad it’s ruined.”

“Not at all.” She looked sexy as hell in it. “I’ll buy you a replacement, and next time, you’ll wear it in the privacy of our own home.” I lean closer. “Without anything beneath it.”

Finally, some color returns to her cheeks.

The door opens, and Doc reappears. “How are we doing?”

The simmering tension around us bursts like a balloon. I let go of her hand and stand.

“Take a look.”

He comes over to examine my work and then gives me a pleased nod. “Good. The concussion is my main concern. I’d like to keep an eye on her for the next few days.”

“Keep your phone close. If her condition worsens, I want you on hand.”

“Very well.” He leaves and shuts the door behind him.

I drag my fingers through my hair. I need a shower, a strong drink, and a good eight hours of sleep, but for now, I’ll settle on just the first. I unbutton my shirt and toss it in the hamper.

Cleo gasps. “You’re hurt too.”

I glance down. It takes me a moment to realize she’s talking about my arm. There’s a shallow wound where a bullet grazed me on my biceps, but I barely feel it. “It’s a scratch.”

“Let me see,” she demands stubbornly. “Come here, or I’m going to come over to you.”

“Stay still,” I growl.

It really is nothing. The only annoying thing is that the cut bisected one of my tattoos. A dark, hooded figure levitating over a bed of bones.

My father.

Cleo’s eyes roam the wound and the image beneath it. “Your tattoo is ruined.”

I shrug. “Adds character, don’t you think?”

“Do you need me to stitch you up?”

“I think you might cause more damage than the bullet.”

Her cheeks turn pink. “Rude. Well, at least get the doctor to do it.”

“It’s fine. I can do it myself in the bathroom.”

She purses her lips but doesn’t argue.

In the shower, the water runs pink for a while, but I know the cut isn’t anything to worry about. I press my palms against the wall of the shower and let the water run down my back.

She’s fine. The doctor will make sure she has a smooth recovery. There’s no logical reason to worry at this point.

There’s nothing logical about wanting to punch a wall either, but here I am. Why the fuck am I so riled up? I grab a bar of soap and scrub at my skin. Get it together, Messero.

When I come out of the bathroom, Cleo has changed into a T-shirt, and she’s lying stiffly on the bed. Her gaze darts to me, and her eyes widen when she realizes I’m only wearing a pair of boxers.

I wonder how she’d react if I walked over to her and kissed her right now.

She wouldn’t push me away. What happened tonight chipped at her walls. Maybe even brought them down completely. But I don’t feel like playing our game tonight. Not when she’s weak and vulnerable.

“I’ll sleep on the ottoman,” I offer, dragging my fingers through my wet hair.

She shakes her head. “You’re injured too.”

“I told you it’s nothing.”

“Rafe.” Her jaw firms. “The bed is huge.” She reaches across and pulls back the duvet on the other side. “Just get in.”

I stare at her for a long moment. She doesn’t back down.

All right. If she insists, I’m not going to fight her about it. I walk around the bed and climb in. A moment later, she turns off the light and darkness wraps around us. Soon, her breathing slows and deepens. I lie there for a while, staring at the ceiling and revisiting old memories that made me who I am. Memories of my mother and my father. Memories of that lamplit bedroom and my bare feet against the smooth hardwood floor.

I’ll stop when you stop your whining, boy.

I exhale a heavy breath and shut my eyes.