Page 81 of Brutal Vows

“You don’t have to ask,piccola cerva.” I press my lips to her forehead before standing. “I’ll take care of it.”

She nods but doesn’t move right away. Her body is still sore, still recovering from what that bastard put her through. I don’t wait for her to struggle. Instead, I carefully slide my arms beneath her, lifting her from the bed. She makes a small noise of protest, but I silence it with a look.

“Let me take care of you.”

Her lips part like she wants to argue, but then she exhales and rests her head against my shoulder.

I carry her into the en-suite bathroom, flipping on the light and setting her down on the closed toilet lid. She watches me as I turn the knobs, filling the tub with warm water. I grab a bottle of lavender-scented bath oil and pour a small amount under the running stream, watching as the water turns silky and fragrant.

When I glance back at her, she’s biting her lip, hesitation flickering in her eyes.

“I can do it myself,” she says softly.

I kneel in front of her, reaching for the hem of her oversized shirt. The one I put her in after the doctor finished tending to her injuries. “You could,” I agree. “But you don’thave to.”

Her throat works as she swallows, and after a moment, she lifts her arms slightly. It’s all the permission I need.

Gently, I peel the fabric away from her, my jaw clenching at the bruises painting her skin. My rage flares again, but I shove it down. She doesn’t need that right now. She needsme. Peeling back the wrap on her ribs, I carefully set it to the side, so it doesn’t get wet.

I slide her underwear down her legs, pressing a kiss to the inside of her knee before lifting her into my arms again. Slowly, I lower her into the warm water. She hisses as the heat touches her skin but then exhales, her body relaxing against the porcelain.

I roll up my sleeves and reach for a soft washcloth. Dipping it into the water, I wring it out and start at her shoulders, running the warm fabric over her delicate skin. She shivers, but not from the cold.

Her eyes meet mine, and I see the vulnerability there.

“You don’t have to do this,” she whispers.

I cup her cheek, my thumb stroking the side of her face that isn’t bruised. “Yes, I do.”

She blinks, and for a moment, I think she might cry. But she doesn’t. Instead, she leans into my touch, letting me care for her the way she deserves.

I continue bathing her, running the cloth over every inch of her with slow, reverent strokes. When I reach for the shampoo, she closes her eyes, sighing as I work it through her hair, massaging her scalp with careful fingers.

By the time I rinse her clean, she looks lighter. Still exhausted, still hurting, but there’s a softness to her expression that wasn’t there before.

I reach for a towel, wrapping it around her before lifting her again. She doesn’t protest this time. Instead, she curls into me, letting me carry her back to bed.

As I tuck her in, she reaches for me. “Stay?”

“Always,” I murmur, sliding in beside her and pulling her into my arms.

She exhales, pressing her face against my chest, and I hold her close, vowing to never let her go.

Gia is asleep again by the time the doctor arrives, curled against me, her breath soft and even. But I don’t miss the way her fingers still clutch at my shirt, like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go.

The knock at the door is quiet, almost hesitant. I shift carefully, easing Gia’s grip without waking her, and slip out of bed. My body protests, the exhaustion clawing at me after everything that happened, but she comes first.

Always.

I open the door to find Dr. Moretti standing there, his expression calm but observant as he takes in my disheveled appearance. The man had been tending to my family for years before my father’s death. He’s seen a lot, but I can tell even he wasn’t prepared for what he walked into last night when he first patched Gia up.

“How is she?” he asks, stepping inside.

“She slept for a while, but she woke up in pain.” I lead him toward the bed. “I helped her bathe and wrapped her ribs again after.”

Dr. Moretti nods approvingly, setting his bag down beside the bed. Gia stirs slightly at the movement, her brow furrowing, but she doesn’t wake. I kneel beside her, running a soothing hand down her arm.

“Bambolina,” I murmur, brushing a kiss against her temple. “The doctor is here to check on you.”

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