Page 77 of Dante

---

God.

Even injured. Even pale and gaunt and barely able to stand. Even with a bullet wound in his side and dark circles under his eyes.

He's beautiful.

I hate that I notice. I hate that I can't stop noticing.

"Your wound," I say. My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Did you keep it dry?"

"Yes."

"You didn't get the bandage wet?"

"No."

"Good." I nod. Once. Twice. "Good. That's good. Now go put on clothes before you catch hypothermia and I have to explain to Sophia why I let her husband's best soldier freeze to death in my hallway."

"Best soldier?"

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late."

He's smiling now. That half-smile that makes something twist in my chest.

I point toward the bedroom. "Clothes. Now."

"Yes, ma'am."

He turns.

The towel shifts.

I catch a glimpse of his ass—muscled, firm, water still clinging to the skin—before I force myself to look at the ceiling.

Jesus Christ.

His footsteps fade down the hall. The bedroom door closes.

I sink back onto the couch.

My hands are shaking.

I tell myself it's the nerve damage. The same nerve damage that makes me drop things and cramp at the worst moments.

But my left hand is shaking too.

And there's nothing wrong with my left hand.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Dante

The bedroom door clicks shut behind me.

I stand there for a moment. Dripping. Half-hard. Feeling like an idiot wrapped in a towel the size of a dinner napkin.

I run a hand through my wet hair and turn toward the bed.

---