Page 13 of Caesar DeLuca
If she’s pretty with a stern expression, I bet she’s fucking gorgeous when she smiles. I can just tell.
Didn’t you just agree to stop focusing on irrelevant shit and shut the fuck up?!
“Behaving yourself,” she says slowly, turning the rest of the way around. She steps to the side of the bed and picks up the soapy water bowl and towel again. “I’d say behaving yourself is doing the exact opposite of everything you’ve been doing.”
“So, shoving down the lady who rescued me isn’t behaving myself?”
It’s a smartass question. I’m giving her shit.
I expect her to scold me for it, but she doesn’t—she really smiles this time. A wide smile that almost morphs into a laugh. Then she shakes her head and says, “No, shoving someone down definitely doesn’t count as behaving yourself.”
“I don’t normally do that…” I clarify for some reason. “I don’t put my hands on women. I was raised never to do so.”
“Well, you didn’t mind putting your hands on me.”
All the humor she was starting to express fades as she reaches for the towel, soaks it in the soapy water, and then wrings it out.
It bothers me that she’s gone from amused to borderline sad in the span of a few seconds. I reach out and grab her by the wrist, forcing her gaze to mine.
“That was the only time,” I say. The most sincere thing I’ve said to her yet. “I was acting out of rage at the situation. I was blinded by the betrayal and half out of it from the stabbing and drowning.”
“And medication,” she supplies.
I nod. “And the medication—whatever it is you gave me. I knocked you down, but it was a mistake that won’t happen again, alright?”
“Is that your version of an apology?”
“I don’t apologize.”
The expression on her pretty face relaxes. “Why am I not surprised?”
“You got me to admit I fucked up. You know how many people get even that out of me?”
“You’re an interesting man.” She blows out a breath and shakes her head, peeling off the bloodied bandage and dabbing the damp towel over my wound.
I stay still and let her for a few seconds, noting how naturally she does what she does. The gentleness in her touch and the calm demeanor that puts me at ease. It says a lot considering I’m usually tense from my over-analytical mind.
Before I even understand why, I’m engaging her in more conversation.
“You say I’m not a trusting guy. But what about you? You won’t even tell me your name.”
“You haven’t told me yours.”
“Lady, are you really about to pretend you didn’t see the ring? You know what I am.”
She freezes mid-dab, her breath stalling. “Yes,” she admits. “I saw the ring. And the ID in your wallet. But I wasn’t asking what you do—and I won’t because it’s none of my business. Who you are, it’s not the same thing.”
We fall into another stretch of silence where she wipes more of my stitched-up wound and then applies a fresh bandage. Pain stings from the inside, almost making me wince, but I clench my jaw and power through it.
I’m much more preoccupied with this woman.
Her long lashes almost touch her full cheeks as she gazes down at my stomach and finishes patching me up.
There’s something very… pure about her. Kindness a violent guy like me isn’t used to seeing every day.
To say it intrigues me is an understatement.
“Caesar,” I say. “My name is Caesar.”
