Page 55 of His Ruthless Vow

"Take off your shirt," she commands.

I try to smirk. "Usually I get dinner first."

"Not funny." Her hands are gentle despite her tone as she helps me remove the ruined fabric.

The wound looks worse than it feels, which isn't saying much. Kendra inhales sharply at the sight. Without hesitation, she begins cleaning it, her movements precise despite her obvious lack of medical training.

"This is going to hurt," she warns, holding up antiseptic.

"Do it," I grunt.

The antiseptic burns like hellfire when it touches raw flesh. I grit my teeth, refusing to flinch as Kendra works over me with steady hands. Every touch sends lightning through my nervous system, but I keep my face neutral. I've learned long ago that pain is just information. Useful, but ultimately manageable.

"You need stitches," she mutters, dabbing at the wound with gauze that comes away crimson. "I don't know how to?—"

"Just clean it, pack it, wrap it," I instruct, my voice rougher than intended. "I've got someone coming."

Her eyes flash to mine, skeptical but not surprised. Of course I have someone—I'm not stupid enough to bleed out on my expensive couch. But watching her hands move over my skin, determined despite her obvious exhaustion, stirs something uncomfortable in my chest.

Penny whines softly from beside the couch, her mismatched eyes never leaving my face. She's always been the sensitive one, attuned to pain and danger. Paige, meanwhile, shoves her nose repeatedly against Kendra's elbow, seeking attention even in crisis. Typical.

"Stop moving," Kendra orders, pressing a fresh bandage against my abdomen.

I obey, watching the concentration on her face. The way her bottom lip disappears between her teeth. The furrow between her brows. Blood and ash streak her cheeks, her clothes. She's a goddamn war goddess kneeling beside me.

When she's done, she secures the bandage with medical tape and sits back on her heels, suddenly looking every bit as drained as she should. Without ceremony, she drops from her knees to sit on the floor beside the couch, her back against the cushions where my hand rests. Paige immediately curls against her side, head in her lap, while Penny presses her warm weight against my uninjured side.

Kendra exhales, running a hand through her tangled curls. The sound is shaky, betraying the emotions she's been suppressing.

"Don't ever do that again," she says, voice soft but edged with steel.

I feel my lips twitch despite the pain. "Can't make promises."

Her head tilts back, just enough that I can see her profile—the proud line of her jaw, the soft curve of her lips. She doesn't respond, but her fingers find mine where they rest on the couch, twining together as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

Days crawlby in a haze of pain, medication, and Kendra's steady presence. Luca's doctor—a man who asks no questions and takes payment in cash—removes the bullet, stitches me up, and provides enough painkillers to sedate a horse. I take half of what he prescribes. I need my mind clear.

By the third day, I'm moving around the penthouse, ignoring Kendra's disapproving glares. By the fifth, I'm making calls—including one that has Rome dropped off in Cappalletti territory where they will dispatch the traitor for me. By the seventh, Luca arrives—right on schedule.

He enters my space like he belongs here, steel-blue eyes taking in every detail. He's dressed impeccably, as always—dark suit tailored to perfection, shoes polished to a mirror shine. Nothing about him suggests he's the most dangerous man in Chicago. Nothing except the emptiness in his eyes.

Kendra stiffens when he enters, though she'd known he was coming. She's sitting at my kitchen island, fingers wrapped around a coffee mug, watching him with the wariness of a woman who recognizes a predator.

"Skye sends her regards," Luca tells her, his voice neutral. Not cold, not warm—just factual, as if emotion is a foreign concept. "She's been worried."

Kendra nods once. "Tell her I'm fine."

His attention shifts to me, assessing. "You look like shit."

"Always the charmer," I respond, gesturing toward the living area. "Shall we?"

Luca follows me to the sitting area, taking a seat in the leather armchair across from me. He doesn't fidget, doesn't look uncomfortable. He simply waits, patient as death.

I don't waste time with pleasantries. "Zenon made his move. Him and Ercole."

Luca's expression doesn't change as I detail the ambush, the warehouse, Kendra's kidnapping. I explain how they used her as bait, claimed she was working with them, tried to drive a wedge between us before killing me. I tell him about the bullet, the fire, the escape.

Throughout it all, Luca's face remains impassive, but I know him well enough to see the subtle tightening around his eyes—the only indicator of the rage building beneath that controlled exterior.

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