Page 56 of Read This Before the Villain falls in Love with You

"Infirmary," Adrian barks, hoisting half of Luca's weight onto his shoulder. "Now. Enzo, lock down the north perimeter. Nonna, get the hall cleared before someone tracks mud on your tiles."

I stay glued to Luca's side the entire way. His eyes are open but glassy, jaw locked like he's personally offended by the bullet. When they lay him on the infirmary table he tries to sit up.

I shove both palms against his uninjured shoulder to pin him flat to the bed. "Don't you fucking dare. You took a bullet from a Bellini amateur. Lie down before I sit on your ribs."

His mouth quirks, a faint, bloody smirk that makes me want to shake him. "Kinky. Save the dirty talk for when I'm not leaking on the floor."

"He's cracking jokes while bleeding everywhere," I yell toward the ceiling, throwing my hands up. "Someone knock him out before I do it myself."

In the doorway, Matteo rubs grime off his knuckles with a rag. "Please don't hit the boss with anything. The cleanup is bad enough already."

The doctor, a grim older man who looks like he's seen every Moretti bleed at least once, waves us back and starts cutting fabric. I refuse to leave. I stand at the head of the bed and card my fingers through Luca's hair while they dig metal out of muscle. He barely flinches. Of course he doesn't. Control freak to the bone, even when half-unconscious.

Hours blur. The estate settles into that tense post-battle quiet where everyone pretends they're fine and nobody is. Dawn is a gray smear against the windows when the doctor finally packs the last of the gauze and mutters something about rest and no sudden movements.

Everyone else filters out into the gray corridor. Matteo claps my shoulder once, giving me a rare, exhausted nod. Sofia leaves two bottles of water on the rolling tray, catching my eye with a look that acknowledges how thin the margin was. Then the heavy door clicks shut, leaving me with Luca and the rhythmic ping of a vitals monitor that feels far too loud in the quiet.

I drag a chair close enough that my knees bump the mattress. His eyes open halfway.

"You look like shit." His dry throat turns the syllables into rough gravel, broken by a harsh cough.

"You look like hell on a slab. Drink this and shut up." I guide the plastic cup toward his chin. He sips greedily, then his long fingers wrap around my wrist when I attempt to pull back.

His thumb presses lightly against my pulse point. "You stayed."

I roll my eyes and fight the lump forming in my throat. "Of course I stayed, you idiot. Someone has to make sure you don't try to get up with a hole in your chest. Besides, out there, I really thought you were dead. I hated that feeling more than anything."

His thumb strokes along the tendon of my wrist. "I am right here."

I rest my forehead gently against his, letting his warm skin calm the crazy pounding in my chest. "Barely. You don't get to die right after we finally started talking to each other. That would piss me off too much."

He chuckles, the sound cutting off into a wince when his shoulder pulls against the clean bandage. "Sorry about that. Next time someone shoots at me, I'll check with your schedule first."

"See? You can be trained." I lean down and press a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth, careful of the tight pain lines etching his forehead. He tilts his head to catch my lips, refusing to let me pull back, deepening the kiss with a desperate, heavy hunger that makes my chest ache.

When I pull back his gaze is darker. Clearer.

"Nora," he rumbles. His fingers slide into the hair at the base of my head, his grip tightening until his knuckles press hard against my skin, his chest hitching on a sharp, hitched breath. "I need you close."

"Good," I breathe against his jaw, feeling the stubble catch on my cheek. "Because I am not leaving this room."

I stand and lock the infirmary door. When I come back he is already trying to shift over on the narrow bed. I help him, gently, until there is space. Then I strip out of the ruined dress, shoes, everything, until I'm bare under the harsh medical lights. His eyes track every inch like he's memorizing proof I'm still whole.

"Get over here," he growls, his voice thick and demanding.

I climb on carefully, straddling his hips but keeping my weight off the bandaged shoulder. His good hand slides up my thigh, possessive and shaking at the same time. I lean down and kiss him again, deeper this time, pouring every leftover terror into it. He answers with teeth and tongue and a low sound that vibrates straight through me.

"Slow down," I breathe against his lips, my hands framing his jaw. "You're completely wrecked. We do this slow, or I swear to God I'll stop and lecture you about internal bleeding."

"Bossy little bird." His fingers slide between my thighs, finding me slick and dripping from the adrenaline of almost losing him. He strokes me once, heavy and deliberate, watching my eyes dilate. "Fuck, look at you swell around my hand."

I tilt my pelvis into his touch. "Look at you. Half-dead with a hole in your shoulder and you're still trying to dictate the pace. You arrogant prick."

He laughs, genuine and wrecked, then guides himself to my entrance. I sink down inch by inch, gasping at the stretch, at how full he feels even like this. When I'm seated completely we both go still, breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.

"You okay?" I whisper, checking his face for pain.

"More than fucking okay." His good hand clamps down hard on my hip, anchoring me. "Ride me, Nora. Right now."