Page 65 of Twisted Vows

“We need to relocate my mom to a safer place.” She smooths her skirt.

I immediately call Marco to station a couple of guards at Elena’s hospital.

Then I reach for her hand in an attempt to soothe her. “I’ve handled it.”

We sit quietly. It’s difficult pretending we’re still the same as we were an hour ago.

I glance at her hands, at the blood on the wheel—mine or hers, it doesn’t matter anymore—and the truth settles in my gut. She saved me. Put herself in danger and killed for me. She’s not the goody-two-shoes kindergarten teacher anymore, not the innocent woman who flinched at raised voices, and I’m not just the enforcer either. Not with her. Not when every instinct in my body screams to protect instead of use her.

“Come on,” I say. “Inside.”

The silence wraps around us like gasoline-soaked cotton. Like danger. This kind of quiet never lasts.

Sophia’s fingers clamp around my wrist, tugging with surprising force for someone so delicate. She pulls me toward the couch with wide, fierce eyes, like she’s dragging a wounded wolf into the den and daring it to bite.

“Sit,” she snaps.

Not a request.

The Ricci part resists. The part raised on control, hierarchy, and blood before bandages. Being taken care of feels like defeat, but then she places her soft, trembling palms against my chest and pushes me again, insistent.

So I sit.

A wince escapes through gritted teeth. My shoulder’s burning like someone poured tequila over an open flame. She disappears down the hall in a whirlwind of worry and stubbornness before returning carrying towels, a bowl of water, and the first aid kit I can’t remember seeing in the house before.

She moves like she’s done this many times. She probably has no experience with bullets, but with the chaos kids cause in the classrooms, she’d have had to at least fixed a few scraped knees.

It doesn’t matter that my injuries are far from a knee hitting the floor. I feel at complete ease as she kneels, gently sets down the bowl, and rolls up my sleeve.

Though her hands quiver, her jaw’s set like stone.

“I’m fine,” I grunt.

“Shut up.”

Fair enough.

Her fingers brush my forearm softly, and heat shoots straight through me.

I watch her work, marveling at the concentration in her eyes and the way she bites her lip. When she glances up and catches me staring, the connection is electric, undeniable, and familiar.

She reads me like she’s a part of me. The proof is in how her cheeks flush pink. She looks away quickly, but I can sense the way her breathing changes to shallow and unsteady heaves, and her hand continues to tremble slightly before she steadies it.

The antiseptic stings, and a trail of blood snakes down my arm and into the bend of my elbow. She dabs the injury clean, working in silence, her brow furrowed in focus.

When she leans closer, her wildflower scent fills my lungs, the aroma sharpening as her hair falls forward and nearly brushes my chest.

I can’t tear my eyes off her. They’re stuck on the furrow between her brows and the gentle pressure of her fingertips against my skin.

My pulse kicks up, the low hum of desire overriding the pain.

When she braces her hand on my bicep for leverage, the contact burns, but I want more.

I want her hands everywhere.

No one has ever made me feel like this. With Izzy, the end goal was always sex, but Sophia’s hands on my skin feel good on their own. Like I could enjoy her touch for hours.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” Her eyes shift inquisitively as she starts wrapping bandages around my arm. “Before today, you’ve been avoiding me.