Page 42 of Claimed Through Deception

I don't.

I bypass the heavy steel doors leading to the medical bay. I keep to the service stairs, moving through the shadows of my own house like a ghost. I leave a trail of red drops on the stone steps.

I refuse to bleed in front of the men who look to me for invincibility. I refuse to show weakness to the guards who patrol these halls.

More than that, I crave a very specific set of hands. I gave her comfort in the dark. Now, I am a selfish bastard coming to collect a debt she doesn't owe.

I navigate the dark second-floor hallway. The estate is asleep. The guards are stationed at the perimeter, blind to the bleeding Underboss stalking through the inner corridors.

I stop in front of her door.

I do not knock. I push the handle down. The lock gives way under the master key I carry in my pocket.

The room is pitch black. It smells faintly of her vanilla soap. I step inside and shut the door behind me. I lean heavily against the wood, my vision blurring for a fraction of a second. I grit my teeth, forcing the dizziness away.

"Livia."

My voice is a harsh, wet rasp.

The lump beneath the thin white sheets shifts. She sits up fast, a gasp caught in her throat. The faint moonlight filtering through the window catches the wide, terrified whites of her eyes.

"Who is it?" she whispers. She shrinks back against the headboard, pulling the blanket up to her chin.

"Turn on the lamp."

She recognizes my voice. Her hand fumbles in the dark until the small bedside lamp clicks on, casting a low, warm glow across the narrow bed.

Her eyes land on me, and I can see the fear shift and morph into confusion.

I am leaning against the closed door. Blood drips from my fingertips, soaking into the hardwood floor. My face is pale, covered in a sheen of cold sweat. My dark coat is ruined.

"Niccolò," she breathes, the name slipping out before she can catch it.

She throws the covers off, her bare feet hitting the floor. She is wearing a thin white tank top and soft cotton shorts. She looks soft. She looks like a civilian. I am dragging her into the mud of my reality, but I cannot stop myself. I need her hands on me.

"You're bleeding," she says, taking a hesitant step forward.

"The Falcos sent a message," I grind out, pushing off the door. Each step toward her requires a monumental effort of will.

I drop the heavy leather medical kit onto her mattress.

She stares at the kit, then up at my face. "You need a doctor. I'll get Marta. I'll call—"

"No," I command.

I sway slightly. I catch the edge of the bedpost to steady myself.

"No doctors. No staff." I lock my gaze onto hers. "You."

She shakes her head, taking a step back. "I don't know how. I'm a waitress, not a nurse. I'll hurt you."

“I’m sure you’ve stitched a cloth before.”

“This is flesh! They are not the same.”

"I trust you."

The words slip out. They are raw, stripped of all armor. I watch them land on her. Her jaw parts. She looks at the blood pooling on the floorboards, then back at my face.