Chapter 9 - Blood and Bandages in the Guest House
The sharp, metallic tang of iron filled the air of the small guest house behind the main stables. Outside, the storm had finally broken over the estate, sheets of rain lashing against the reinforced glass windows in violent, rhythmic gusts. Inside, the only illumination came from a single, battery-powered emergency lantern sitting on the oak dining table, casting long, wavering shadows across the walls.
I pressed a clean gauze pad against a jagged, ugly gash along Dante’s ribs, biting my lip as he winced, his dark jaw clenching hard enough to break a tooth. He was stripped to the waist, the intricate dark tattoos across his chest and shoulders gleaming with a sheen of sweat and dried blood. He had found us in the wine cellar just after I managed to neutralize the intruder with the iron corkscrew, pulling us out through the drainage grate before Marcus's remaining men could converge on our position.
"You're shaking," Dante muttered, his voice rough and gravelly, stripped of the polished arrogance he usually wore like a second suit of armor. He wasn't looking at his own wound; his dark, intense eyes were fixed entirely on my face, tracking the smudge of soot and flour still clinging to my cheek.
"I'm not shaking from fear," I replied quietly, pressing the antiseptic swab against his skin with a steady hand, though my fingers trembled slightly despite my resolve. "I'm shaking because your head of security is running the hit squad, and we're currently trapped in a glorified bunker with half a clip of ammunition between us."
May you like
Dante let out a harsh, bitter breath that sounded almost like a laugh, though there was no humor in it. "Marcus was like a brother to me. He held my coat at my wife's funeral." He reached up, his large, calloused hand suddenly catching my wrist, stopping my movements. His skin was burning hot, sending a sudden, electric jolt straight up my arm that made my breath catch in my throat. "And yet he sold us out to the Syndicate for a seat at their table. You saved my daughters tonight, Clara. More than once. I need you to know... I won't let them touch you."
His thumb brushed lightly against the inside of my wrist, right over my pulse point, lingering there for a long, heavy second that stretched the bounds of our employer-employee dynamic until it snapped. The distance between us vanished in the cramped, shadowed room. For the first time all night, the violence and the paranoia faded into the background, replaced by the heavy, undeniable gravity pulling us together in the dark.
