Page 63 of Love Him Like Water

I just turned off the light, then tossed and turned, wondering where Renzo was.

Until, near the morning, I heard voices in the living room below. Cinna’s and a deeper rumble.

A few minutes later, I heard heavy footsteps making their way up the stairs.

He walked in then, heading right toward the bathroom, leaving the door open, so the light spilled into the bedroom.

I sat up as I heard the water click on.

I don’t know why, but I found myself climbing out of bed, and making my way to the doorway.

And there he was.

Renzo.

His shirt splattered with blood.

Gaze sliding upward, I saw more blood on his neck, his face, down his arms, and pouring off his fingertips under the tap.

I didn’t have to wonder whose blood it was.

Maybe I should have been horrified.

A normal woman likely would have.

But this was the life I was raised in.

It was often violent and brutal.

Without being able to rely on the law, justice had to be meted out by these men.

I knew what was going to happen the moment I gave Renzo a description of my attacker.

So it wasn’t horror or disgust moving through my system as I looked at the evidence of Renzo’s revenge. It was something a lot softer, sweeter.

I must have moved, because Renzo suddenly stiffened, looking over at me.

“Go back to bed, mouse,” he said, his gaze lingering on my bruise. “You don’t need to see this,” he added, whipping off his bloodied shirt, then turning his gaze away, trying to hide the blood on his face from me.

I didn’t go back into the room.

Instead, I turned to the linen cabinet, grabbing a washcloth, then moving next to him to wet it in the other sink before turning to him, and reaching out to force him to face me.

“What’re you doing?” he asked, shaking his head at me.

“Shh,” I demanded, lifting my hands, careful to pinch the washcloth with my fingers, so my palms didn’t hurt, then reaching to start wiping the blood off of Renzo’s face.

He was uncomfortable at first, his whole body almost vibrating with tension. But as I gently wiped at his skin, he started to relax, even soften, as he looked at me.

I wiped off his face, then his neck, and his arms, before leaving the washcloth in the sink under the running water to clean most of the blood off.

“Thank you,” I said, watching as confusion moved across his stupidly handsome features.

“You don’t need to thank me,” he said, voice small, but rough. “You should be blaming me,” he added.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because everyone in this neighborhood should know you’re off-limits.”

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