Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

Cinna

For a man who had been making comments about getting me naked for years, he was surprisingly gentlemanly as he undid my bra, then turned me, so he couldn’t see anything as he moved past me.

I wasn’t exactly a modest woman.

If he saw my tits during this process, so be it.

But there was a strange gooey sensation in my chest as he came back into the bathroom, then carefully slid one of my arms in, and pulled the shirt around me, before slipping in my other arm. Then, finally, he reached around, making sure the sides were settled between my breasts, so nothing was showing.

I could have sworn that before he turned me, his lips pressed into my hair. But, honestly, I had no fucking idea. My entire skull felt like it was throbbing at that point. I was probably just imagining things.

Dav moved in front of me, grabbing the zip, and slipping it up, careful not to brush my skin.

The weird thing was, some part of me was… I don’t know… disappointed.

Which made no fucking sense, since I’d never had any interest in Dav that way. I couldn’t. We were colleagues. And shit was hard enough for a woman in this job. You couldn’t have it getting around that you fucked coworkers. Any respect you sweated and bled for would fly right out the window.

“Hey, Cinna?” he asked, voice uncharacteristically serious as his gaze cut up to mine.

Even with only half of my vision working, I had to admit that he was a pretty place to rest your eyes for a minute or two.

Dav was a little bit too fair to be fully Italian like most of us. His hair was solidly in the brown category, but it was streaked with enough golden strands to make him seem more fair-haired. And his light blue eyes with their thick lashes were undeniably attractive.

And don’t think I didn’t notice the rest of him.

The low-slung pajama pants left very little to the imagination, his broad chest, six-pack, and Adonis belt on full display.

But where I usually found mischief in his eyes as he looked at me, or even, at times, desire, there was something darker there now.

“What?” I asked when he didn’t say anything else.

“Your waistband is rolled,” he said, the implication hanging in the air like a fog we were both struggling to breathe in.

My gaze slid away, surprising myself with my own embarrassment. Even though nothing that happened was because of anything I’d done.

“No,” I said. “If I didn’t grab a bottle neck and strike out, though,” I admitted, taking a deep breath that sliced up my ribs and burned my lungs like something noxious.

“How about I peel the pants off?” he suggested. “Can’t imagine getting the leather off with that busted hand is gonna feel good.”

“Okay,” I agreed, too tired to try to find my pride, to insist I could do it myself.

He was offering.

I was going to let him.

Reaching up under the black and gray zip-up hoodie he gave me, he reached for my button, and this time, his fingers brushed against my skin.

I didn’t anticipate the little sizzle of interest. Not at a time like this. Or, let’s face it, not at all with Dav.

I was just overwrought.

In agony.

Exhausted.

It meant nothing.

Not even as the sensation intensified as he grabbed handfuls of my waistband, carefully avoiding my panties, and started to tug the material down my hips. My thighs. The oddly sensitive sides of my knees.

“I need to check your feet too,” he said as if just realizing I was practically barefoot in my shredded socks.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “I think there’s glass,” I admitted, voice sounding thick with the effort it was taking to keep me upright and conscious.

Dav made a noise in his throat but said nothing as he pressed me back to the toilet then pulled off my pants, squatting down to reach for my thin socks, wincing as he pulled them off. Like my pain was his own.

“Christ, baby,” he said as he settled my ankle on his leg, inspecting my foot. “How the fuck were you standing on these?” he asked as he reached toward the counter for his kit, digging around blindly until he found the tweezers.

“Wasn’t much of a choice,” I said, watching the top of his head as he went to work on my feet.

I was sure there was pain.

But that thing they said about not being able to feel multiple pains at once proved true right then. And my brain was struggling to decide if the pain in my wrist, ribs, head, or face were the one to focus on. It didn’t even clock the sensation of glass being plucked out of my feet.

He worked on one foot. Then the other. Before rushing off to grab a flashlight and double-checking his work.

The next thing I knew, my feet were being plunged into warm, soapy water in a small basin that appeared out of nowhere, making me wonder if maybe I was slipping in and out of consciousness as I sat there.

“Just wrap them up,” I said as he hemmed and hawed on what to do about them once he was done. “I’m gonna need to borrow socks. And maybe slides if you have any.”

“For what?” he asked, looking up, his brows pinched.

“So I can go home,” I said, hearing the way my words were dragging, too tired even to enunciate properly.

“You can’t go home,” he said, shaking his head.

“I’m not going to the fucking hospital,” I snapped, getting absolutely no reaction out of Dav, who was used to my outbursts at this point.

“I wasn’t talking about the hospital. You need someone to keep an eye on you,” he clarified. “You’re staying here tonight.”

He had that edge to his voice that all the guys in this organization did when they were going to dig their heels in about something.

But I didn’t get this far in my life and career by bending to the wishes or demands of the men around me.

“No, I’m not. I’m going home.”

“Yeah?” he asked, head tipping to the side. “And who’s gonna help you wrap those ribs up again after you shower? Pick things up for you so you don’t fucking black out from pain? Feed you?”

“I can take care of myself,” I insisted, even if it was the last goddamn thing in the world I wanted. Just once, once in my hard-ass-fucking-life, it would be nice not to have to be so strong.

“I’m not saying you can’t, Cinna. I’m saying I want to help.”

“Why?”

“Why?” he asked, snorting. “Because you showed up at my doorstep. Beaten to fucking shit. Bleeding. And crying. Cin,” he said, cutting me off when I tried to object. But to what, I had no idea. He was right on all of those points. Even if my ego cringed at the reminder of the last bit. “It’s okay to accept help sometimes. Let me help.”

“I’ll just crash until the morning,” I relented, not entirely sure that I could stay awake even on a cab ride back to my place. Let alone get myself up to my apartment. I just needed some rest. Then I could get back to my place. Hide away while I healed.

“Okay,” he agreed, reaching for gauze and slathering on triple antibiotic ointment, before pressing the pad to my foot, then reaching for a roll of medical tape, and securing it.

The process continued on my other foot until he was satisfied.

“You gonna pitch a fit if I suggest I carry you to bed?” he asked, giving me that boyish grin I somehow knew would make accepting his assistance easier.

“Just this once… no,” I admitted, watching relief move across his stupidly handsome features before he was reaching for me, careful not to jostle me as he pulled me into his arms, then against his chest.

I’d never been carried before.

I wasn’t a dainty woman, all short with bird-like bones. With my usual boots on, I stood pretty close to eye-to-eye with these men in the Lombardi crime family. I had hips and tits and enough muscle to allow me to take care of myself when shit got dicey.

So, no, I wasn’t the kind of woman who men looked at and generally thought to pick up and carry around.

Dav, though, didn’t grunt or wince. And, believe me, I was looking for it, intent on teasing him about it so the moment didn’t feel quite so, I dunno, intimate, as it did.

He just lifted me up like a fucking feather pillow, then walked me out of the bathroom and into the hallway, heading toward the bedroom.

If my head leaned against his shoulder, so what? It didn’t mean anything.

“Wait,” I said as he lowered me onto a king-sized bed with sheets that smelled like him. Leather, tobacco, and just the slightest hint of something sweeter. Like vanilla. It was a scent unique to him, and it always clung to him like a second skin. But in his bed? Fuck, it surrounded me, scented every breath.

“What?” he asked.

“This is your bed.”

“Don’t worry, sweet girl. Your virtue is safe,” he teased. “I’m not sleeping in it with you.”

I should have argued more.

But he was already drawing up the covers.

And the smell and the warmth were too comforting to object to.

So I just… let him tuck me in.

I didn’t even make a snide comment about calling me a ‘sweet girl.’

“Rest, okay?” he asked, his thumb sliding across my chin. “I’ll be one room away if you need anything.”

With that, he left me alone, leaving the door open a crack, so he could hear me if I called.

I was out cold before he even finished cleaning up his kit in the hallway bathroom.