Page 21 of Desperate Decisions

“Thank you, Bianca,” I ground out, jolting when the metal pressed against my skin again. Sweat slicked my brow and it took all my strength to stay still, not to rip that fucking brand out of her hand and turn it on her while she begged for mercy.

I choked my way through every breath, spitting out the thank yous just to make it end.

She held the last one for a few extra seconds before finally removing the brand and setting it back into the fire. I tipped forward, my hands catching me. Black spots danced in my vision, my nerves screaming, pain radiating everywhere.

She cupped my chin, forcing me to look up at her. “Bring your whore to the compound. If you’re going to fuck around behind my back, we might as well make her useful. Now, get the fuck out of my sight.”

I scrambled back, my shirt forgotten in my haste to get away. I forced myself to stay standing. Bianca had hurt me before, and I had been hurt worse in my time serving her, but I had never kneeled there and let it happen. Dizziness swept over me and I practically sprinted down the halls, careening around corners. No one stopped me when I got one of the cars from the garage and blitzed my way down the road away from the compound.

I was at Amara’s before I could think better of it. For all I knew, Bianca had someone follow me, but I was here now and I needed my mate.

CHAPTER 8

AMARA

I kneeled on my bathroom floor, shaking with nausea at the sheer amount of panic and pain flickering through the bond. I tried to remind myself that this was better than the bond going silent, but after throwing up for the second time I wasn’t so sure that silence wasn’t inevitable. Moaning softly, I hauled myself up to lean on the sink and scoop some handfuls of water from the tap.

The frantic buzzing from my doorbell scared the shit out of me and I rushed to answer it.

“Let me in.”

I punched the button to unlock the doors and ran out in the hall to meet him as he came off the elevator. The metal doors slid open and I almost threw up on the spot.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god. What the hell happened? Scratch that, we have more important things to worry about. Let’s get you inside.”

Elio was covered in intricate burns. Anywhere I touched would hurt at least one of them, but I tried my best, wedging my shoulder under his arm and carefully placing my hand at his waist to guide him to the apartment.

He smelled of sweat and panic, char tainting the usually smooth spicy amaretto scent of him. Fuck. I’d dealt with all sorts of stupid injuries for my dad growing up, but it had been a few years since I’d had to worry about things like that.

“Should I call an ambulance?”

“No hospital. I can’t explain this to them.”

Double fuck.

“Okay.” I sat him down on the couch. “Wait right here.”

I bustled around, trying not to throw up again as I gathered up the first aid kit and a bottle of sports drink from the fridge for him to sip because some documentary had impressed upon me the importance of preventing dehydration from burns. I filled a mixing bowl with cool water and added a cloth, settling myself in front of him to tend to the burns.

He hissed at the first bit of contact, the cool water dripping down his skin. “Fuck. I might pass out if they all feel like that.”

“I’m sorry. Can we get you into the bathtub?”

“We can try.” He walked unsteadily to the bathroom, climbed into the tub half-dressed, and sat on the bottom of the basin.

I stared at my terrycloth towels, wondering if the loopy fabric would stick to the injuries, and opted to fetch a pair of my flannels, ripping them apart with kitchen scissors before soaking the strips in cool water and laying them over his skin. At least this way the water from the showerhead would hurt a little less. Once the running water was a reasonable temperature, cool, but not cold, I set about meticulously keeping all of the flannels soaked while he cursed and shivered and held on to the edge of the tub to keep himself conscious.

Eventually his breathing evened out, and I could feel the pain dripping away through the bond. I knew it wouldn’t stay gone, not with this many burns, but I was so fucking relieved that it was a little better.

I had plenty of aloe vera, considering how often I burned myself every time I baked anything and when I spent too long in the sun. I left him there in the tub for a moment, chucked a pile of towels onto the couch, and grabbed a couple extras before helping him up and getting him to sit atop them. He was painfully silent as I worked, gently dabbing the aloe vera over each burn and then setting up the fan so that it would keep the gel cool against his skin.

“What’s the mark?” I asked.

“I haven’t had time to look.”

I snapped a photo of a particularly clear design with my phone and showed it to him.

“Gallo family crest. Of fucking course.”

---