Page 33 of Mafia King's Forbidden Vows

He’s a complete mess. Again.

There’s blood trickling from the gash on his forehead, and his split lip is already blue and swelling. His shirt, half-buttoned, is hanging loosely from his shoulders, as if he has lost so much weight between the night before and now.

“W…what happened to you?” I gasp, reaching out to touch his lip. My hand doesn’t get there because he snatches it up midway.

“That’s not the best way to welcome your guest,” Elio lets out a huff of breath in a scoff, and I shake my head as he brushes past me into the room.

“What do you think you’re doing? You should be on your way to the hospital, not finding your way to my room at this hour!”

“I don’t need a damn hospital and I certainly don’t need you whining at me,” his voice is gruff and shaky, as if he is in so much pain.

“You’re bleeding, Elio. Fucking bleeding all over the rug! And just after you almost had yourself killed yesterday.”

“I don’t need a lecture right now either!” A soft gasp escapes my lips. It is the first time he’s ever raised his voice at me since we met. I blink rapidly, trying to make sense of why he would come into my room and yell at me, especially when he is hurt this way.

I stomp out of his presence and grab a towel to dab at the trickles of blood which have seeped into the beige rug in the center of the tiled floor.

“You can do all of that mopping later. Or leave it for the staff. Seeing you all over the place like this makes me uneasy so find a place to sit.”

The unbelievable jerk.

I’m tempted to ask him to stand up and get out, but seeing how he’s leaning heavily against the sofa, blood dripping steadily down the side of his face, my heart fails me.

Instead, I ask him, “Does your head hurt?”

“Is your hair black?” he snaps. I grab two pills of Ibuprofen I always have in my bag, and hand them over to him. He pops them into his mouth while I open the mini refrigerator to get a bottle of water.

When he has gulped down more than half of the bottle, I ease it away from his hands and dash out the door to the room where he’d been treated just yesterday −the stitch room as he calls it. Grabbing the essentials I need, I hurry back to the room.

I’m no doctor, and here I am doing doctor duties. He grimaces when I soak a small portion of cotton wool and begin to dab away at the blood on his face.

“It’s funny how you think this gash in your head is going to close itself up if you just sit around and don’t go back to the doctor to look into it.” I know he doesn’t want to hear it, but how can I just sit back silently?

“I already called the doctor. He said something about applying pressure on the area,” he responds gruffly.

I throw him a tentative glance and press my lips into a thin line. “What pressure did you apply on your head, Mr. Donatelli?”

He stares at me blankly and says, “I’ve been through worse. This is just a piece of cake, so stop nagging.”

I still over his temple, soaked cotton wool in my hand. “Do you ever get tired of stroking your own ego?” My lips are scrunched up in a frown.

I swipe angrily at the wound on his head, causing him to shut his eyes tightly in agony.

“You’re the most obnoxious person I’ve ever met. If you keep your mouth shut, maybe you won’t upset me and cause me to poke at your wound.”

I can sense his muscles tense up at my words but he falls completely silent and doesn’t retort like he normally would have.

When I fix an adhesive bandage onto his head wound, my fingers travel lightly over his shirt, teasing his chest. He raises a brow at me, but I refuse to catch his eye. I have to concentrate on finding other wounds or scratches on his body without actually concentrating on his broad, muscular chest.

“Didn’t realize you were so eager, Princess. If you want, I can take you right here on this couch.” There’s a smirk dancing on his lips despite the state of his face.

“Oh, grow up,” I snap. “I’m just checking to see if you have any other hidden bruises. Besides, I’m not going to patch you up through your clothes.”

“Relax. I’m just trying to lighten the mood.” He pulls off his shirt with a wince, and my breath hitches.

Yes, his arms are built like barrels beside his broad chest and hefty torso. Small, golden hair streaked with grey creases his chest and the middle of his stomach, traveling down to his navel.

I forbid my eyes from trailing past his navel and look back to his arms.

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