Page 28 of His Little Spitfire

“Can’t say the same.” Grunting, he soon groans under his breath when he has to peel the fabric off of me. “You’re soaked, Eliza.”

I’m starting to really like it when this man says my name. Everything that is coming out of his mouth are all the right words. He’s running a streak now.

As my underwear hit my ankles, I kick them away and lift my arms. Wrapping them around his neck, he easily scoops me up. My fingers twitch, itching to get his clothes off of him as well. It’s only fair. I can’t be the only one naked here.

Taking me to the bathroom, the coolness of the sink counter stings my flushed sex as he sets me down long enough to turn on the shower to let it heat. Once he moves back, I’m reaching out to coax him to return between my knees.

“You all wear these shirts,” I murmur as I run my fingers along the buttons. “I bet you have to constantly buy replacements. The buttons pop too easily.”

I could prove my point, yanking the shirt open to reveal what he’s hiding beneath. Though there’s something about the way his chest swells when I touch him. Like he can’t get enough of having my hands on him. So, I unbutton one at a time until the entire row is open and left as flaps of fabric.

He doesn’t blink. Not once. When I push at his shirt, he helps shrug it off. Hearing the shirt hit the ground, I’m too distracted to move straight toward his slacks.

Urzo’s chest bears many marks. Scars both old and new welcome my gaze, each telling its own story.

I know what bullet wounds and stabbings look like, even after they’ve healed. I might not have been on the front line, but I’ve seen members of my family bloody up carpets.

He makes this low-throaty groan when I ghost the indent against his ribs. A past bullet wound that had to have shattered the rib right beneath it. Must’ve been painful.

“You look like you’ve thrown yourself into the face of danger,” I murmur with a slow shake of my head. “You… can’t do that anymore.”

Sure, my word means nothing, but I’m opening myself up here. I can’t say I want Urzo to get himself killed. I know he was willing to marry me for his family, and I’m sure he had done anything else in the past for them as well. But now, things have changed.

He’s got me now, someone who expects him to live. Plus, what if kids become a thing in the future? The last handful of years without my parents were chaotic. I wouldn’t want to put my son or daughter through that.

“No more front lining. Be a general or something.” I don’t know how it works, but he’s got to make safer choices. He can play his role from the background and give orders. Something like his brother does.

I guess I really don’t want him to die.

He grunts again, and I struggle to take in what the meaning is.

“Urzo. Seriously, promise me. Tell me you won’t put yourself in danger on purpose.” It’s a big ask, I get it. Even stranger coming from me, I’m sure it’s crazy to think he’d listen to what I have to say.

He’s always done whatever his brother wanted. Whatever he needed. If Santino asked him to jump off a bridge and I asked him to walk across, which would he do?

Am I being silly for hoping he’d pick me over the rest?

“I won’t do anything unnecessary,” he finally agrees, sighing softly as he pinches my hair between his fingers. “I promise I’ll come back every night.”

“Unharmed, I hope?” My throat feels a little tight, and I’m not a fan of the foreign feeling of being worried about someone that isn’t Camellia.

“Alive. I can promise that I’ll be breathing.” His thumb tickles the spot behind my ear. “You know I can’t promise anything more than that unless I leave this life altogether. I was born to keep everyone safe. Now, you’re included in that bunch. Sorry to say, but if anyone wanted to take you away from me…”

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. I can hear the threat in his voice, the promise to cause others pain if they dared to touch something that is his.

He’ll end up with more scars on his body; I’m sure of it. More stories will be there to tell.

Lifting my gaze, I take in the first scar I ever saw on this guy. The one decorating his mouth. Starting right below his bottom lip, it drags along both lips and traces up to his cheekbone. Through the beard hair decorating his jaw, hair doesn’t grow on the line.

The first time I looked at him and saw it, I couldn’t help but feel slightly intimidated. However, now that I’ve spent so much time with him, I hardly even notice it.

He notices my stare, and it’s like I’ve hosed down the fire between us. His frown is back, but thankfully, he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t flinch when I touch the line with my thumb, but he doesn’t lean into my touch either.

“How did it happen?” I ask, taking in the gash against his mouth. It’s harsh-looking despite being healed. It isn’t new, but it’s not as white as the others. Still a little pink, I wonder if it still hurts.

Then again, no one has ever cut me with a knife before.

“One of yours did it. Parada got me by surprise,” he answers without taking a moment to think. No, he remembers well enough to hold a grudge for it. “Tried to slit my throat, but failed. He missed, if you can’t tell.”

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