Caruso;
"What are you doing?" She eyes me—and then the lock.
To be honest, I too don't know what the fuck I'm doing.
Anytime this girl is around me, my brain seems to be acting up like it's on steroids.
And I fucking despise that feeling. I like control.
But somehow, her dishonest presence seems to strip that from me—without her even knowing.
Ignoring her, I stalk to the bathroom, taking off my stained T-shirt along the way.
I fucking feel the visceral caress of her eyes on my bare back.
"I'm not going to call you again, little one," I grunt.
As if she feels my frustration, I hear the slow pad of her feet before she arrives at a standstill behind me in the bathroom.
Tipping my head towards a drawer by the side, "You'll find the first aid kit in there."
She looks at me like I'd just announced that I could fly. "You have a first aid kit?"
"Isn't that a normal thing to have?" I shoot her the closest thing to an incredulous look that I can muster.
But it's not working.
Fuck. I want to make expressions for her now?
This is truly and completely fucked.
She doesn't seem to notice my ordeal.
Strolling to the drawer, she hurls it open, picking up the dusty square box with a cross sign.
Her smile makes my eyes want to narrow.
"Like I thought, you don't even use it." She swipes the top repeatedly as she walks back to me.
"Because I have it doesn't mean I should be in constant need of it."
She purses her lips, nodding. Her eyes linger on my profusely bleeding wound, and it softens. "That must really hurt," she mutters.
"Hmm," my only response.
"And you didn't even flinch," pity—or something like it—creeping into her tone.
"Would you rather I weep like a pussy over a mere bullet injury?" I slant my head to the side so I can look at her.
She's red all over. Her mouth parts and shuts before she chooses to lean into silence.
Taking out gauze and bandages, she skillfully applies pressure to stop the bleeding, before wrapping it up with fixed concentration nestled on her brows.
I watch her quietly. Every sharp breath. Every brush of her skin on mine.
"You seem to be well-versed in attending to bullet wounds for someone that's been sheltered her whole life."
Her form freezes, and that flame of suspicion resurfaces like a lit match to gasoline.
"Oh, that." She picks herself up like I'd just imagined that slight shift seconds ago. "I have brothers related to the Mafia, remember?"
That does nothing to quell my heightened suspicion.
I let it die at that, noticing my blood has left a dark stain on her black sweats.
"Done," she announces, trying to steady the smile on her face.
Stepping around her, I take cool strides out of the bathroom. At my wardrobe, I snatch a long-sleeve shirt of mine and walk back. "Put this on."
Another anomaly I perform tonight.
She eyes the fabric and forces a laugh. "I can just go to my room and change. Than—"
Nice try. I block her with my hand before she can sidestep me, gently slamming her against the cool counter.
Bracing my hands on either side of her petite figure, I rasp, "You're not going anywhere, little one."
"What?" Confusion has never looked so fucking pretty on a person. "I-I'm done with your injury."
"You stay here tonight."
"That's…" mulling over the appropriate word, she settles for a breathy, "wrong."
"There's nothing right about me," not that she doesn't know that by now—I literally shot a man dead for flirting with her on her first dinner with the family.
"No." She shakes her head. "I won't."
Dark amusement heats up my blood.
Raking my teeth against my bottom lip, I drawl, "The cameras…"
The defiance in her irises melts like butter in a hot pan. "Wait—I-I'll spend the night."
"Good." I pull away from her, a grin stuck on my mouth. "Now change, and don't fucking fight me about it. As much as I like seeing you in my blood, you'll have to take those off."
"I can't wear your clothes, Caruso."
Damn it.
A muscle ticks in my jaw, the facade of restraint I had snapping and breaking into two.
Grabbing her by the waist, I switch our stance, moving her to the wall and taking hold of her hands, pinning them above her head.
"What are you doing?" Palpable horror creeps into her tone this time, wide eyes taking in my deranged actions.
She struggles against me, but it proves futile. "Please, don't…Caruso, please."
I don't listen, my monsters now in charge.
I rip her sweats off, a cocktail of shock and horror pouring out through her gasp.
Porcelain skin pierces through the red in my vision. Yet I don't let my gaze wander past her shoulders.
Fury burns in my chest—that even in my current vicious state, I still think about her dignity?
Truly fucked indeed.
Powerless against me, I slip her into the fabric, pulling down her sweatpants next and leaving the heap of clothes discarded on the floor.
Her breathing is heavy, and so is mine. But I doubt it's for the same reasons.
Letting go of her wrists, my hands slide down the wall on either side of her, and she flinches. Soft, docile sobs hitching the air.
I lean in, as if her body calls to mine, placing my forehead on hers as I stare into her teary eyes.
But she's not looking at me—she's staring at the floor.
I palm her waist, kneading the dip of her hip as we stay still. Frozen in time, our breaths mingling and fusing into one.
And I realize. This is all I wanted.
I wanted to see her tears again. To taste her tears again.
I wanted to see her cry.
If I didn't believe Doctor Federica ten years ago, then I do now.
—My mental health is in shambles.
Although it didn't take me carving a hole in her brain for giving me such diagnosis to believe her.
No. It takes a fucking nineteen-year-old girl to lure that monster out.
It takes my brother's wife-to-be to prove to me that I'm sick.