Page 54 of Savage Lover

Camille nods again, eyes darker than ever.

And that’s it. I leave. Wondering what the fuck is happening to me.

13

CAMILLE

When Nero falls to the floor, Sione, Johnny Verger, and about five other guys start kicking and stomping him from all angles. Nero has more than a few enemies, eager to get their licks in while he can’t fight back.

Mason tries to intervene, jumping on Johnny from behind, but he’s no match for all of them.

I have to physically throw myself on top of Nero to get them to stop.

I do it on impulse, because I’m afraid they’re going to kill him. In fact, they look like they still want to, whether I’m in the way or not. But Levi backs me up.

“That’s enough,” he says to Johnny and the others.

He lets me haul Nero out of the party, out to my car. Probably because he doesn’t want to get in serious trouble with the Gallos.

“You gonna take him home?” Levi asks me.

He looks twitchy, like he thinks Dante Gallo might be back an hour later to set his whole house on fire.

“No,” I say. “I’ll take him to my place.”

I tell Levi that to put his mind at ease. But once I pull away from the curb, it doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. After all, I’m not exactly looking forward to facing the Gallos myself—Enzo scares the hell out of me, and Dante isn’t much better. Plus Nero’s in no state to defend me.

So I bring him back to my place and haul him up the stairs, which really isn’t an easy task. He’s heavy as hell, dead weight. Plus, wherever I put my hands, I can’t help noticing how hard his body is. Even unconscious, Nero is made of tense, lean muscle just about everywhere.

I lay him down on my bed and try to clean him up a little.

He’s an absolute mess. It’s almost like he wants to get his face caved in. Like he’s trying to destroy its beauty.

It won’t work. The cuts and bruises can’t hide what’s underneath.

With every bit of blood and grime I clean off his skin, I reveal another inch of that perfect face.

It’s funny how the most beautiful faces are atypical. Nero doesn’t look like Brad Pitt or Henry Cavill—he looks only like himself.

He’s got a long face, high cheekbones, a sharp jaw. The whites of his eyes and his white teeth gleam against his olive skin, whenever he speaks or looks your way. His eyebrows are straight black slashes directly above those light gray eyes—eyes that sometimes look bright as starlight, and sometimes as dark as the underside of a storm cloud. He has a broad nose, one that would almost be too big for his face. Except that it perfectly balances his full, soft lips. Lips that should be gentle. But are always twisted up in a sneer.

He’s got a shock of black hair, without a hint of brown in it. It falls over his eyes, then he tosses it back again. It’s an impatient, angry gesture, like he’s annoyed at his own hair, or anything else that dares to touch his face.

He dresses like James Dean, in a battered leather jacket that looks older than he is, torn up jeans, boots, or filthy Chuck Taylor’s.

That’s the Nero I’ve known for most of my life.

The one laying on my bed is a little different. For one thing, he’s sleeping. Passed out or knocked out, I’m not sure. So that intense look of anger is absent from his face. His features are relaxed. Almost peaceful.

The only other time I’ve seen him like that was when we were driving together in his car. Granted, we were fleeing from the cops. But it was the only time I’ve seen him that he almost looked happy.

His T-shirt is torn open from the fight. There’s a long gash across his chest. I clean that up, along with his face.

I notice that the skin on his chest is as smooth and hairless as the rest of him, and as deeply olive. I’m surprised to see that he isn’t covered in tattoos. Actually he doesn’t have any at all that I can see.

I wash his face clean. He groans as I touched the swollen parts of his face. It’s a pitiful sound.

I realize he really is in pain.

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