Page 91 of Ruthless Arrangement

He leaves me sitting in the sunlight, surrounded by exotic flowers and troubling thoughts. The coffee has grown cold in my cup, forgotten during our conversation.

I’ve never seenhim trust anyone the way he trusts you.

The words resonate in my mind, colliding with the knowledge of our mutual deception. How can there be trust between people who are lying to each other? Who are using each other for their own ends?

And yet, I killed for him. Not for my story. Not for strategic advantage. But because, in that crucial moment, the thought of losing him was unbearable.

What does that say about me?

When I return to the bedroom, Nico is seated by the window, a laptop balanced carefully to avoid his injured side. He looks up as I enter, his expression guarded.

“What did my uncle want?”

“To talk about you, mostly.” I cross to the bed and begin straightening the tangled sheets, needing something to do with my hands. “About your childhood. How he raised you after your parents died.”

Nico’s fingers still on the keyboard. “He’s not usually so forthcoming with family history.”

“Maybe he thought I should understand the man whose life I saved.” I turn to face him. “Or maybe he was testing me, seeing how I’d react to a curated version of your past.”

“And how did you react?”

“With more questions than answers.” I move closer to him, noticing the stiffness in his posture, the careful way he holds himself to minimize pain. “You should be in bed.”

“I have matters that can’t wait.” His tone is dismissive, but when he shifts position, a flash of pain crosses his features before he can mask it.

“At least let me help you to the bathroom,” I insist, seeing how he’s avoiding movement. “You need to clean up properly, change those bandages.”

He starts to refuse, then seems to reconsider. “Fine.”

I offer my arm for support as he rises. He accepts the help with visible reluctance, but once standing, his arm slides around my shoulders, leaning more heavily than I think he intended. We move slowly toward the bathroom, his body warm against mine.

Inside, I help him remove the shirt, then step back as he braces himself against the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror. The bandage on his shoulder is spotted with seepage, the bruising on his ribs darkened to deep purple overnight.

“Let me,” I say, reaching for the medical supplies. He watches in silence as I peel away the old bandage and clean the sutured wound. My fingers slide over his skin, clinical in their purpose but intimate in their care.

“You’ve done this before,” he observes.

“My roommate in college was in nursing school. She practiced on me.” I apply fresh antiseptic, noting how he doesn’t flinch despite the sting it must cause. “And I’ve patched up my minor injuries over the years. Hazards of being a curious kid.”

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “You? Curious? No way…”

“You can keep joking all you want, but hold still.” I secure the new bandage and step back to examine my work. “There. Better.”

He turns to the sink, wetting a washcloth to clean his face. I hand him a toothbrush already prepared with paste, our fingers brushing in the exchange. These small, domestic acts feel strangely more intimate than our sexual encounters. There’s no performance here, no strategic seduction. Just basic human care.

When he finishes, I help him back to the bedroom. He sits on the edge of the bed, clearly tiring but unwilling to admit it.

“You should rest,” I tell him.

“So should you.” He studies my face. “You were up all night with me.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” His voice softens. “None of this is fine, Lea. What happened at the club? What you did…”

The gentleness in his tone threatens to undo me. I’ve been holding myself together through shock, through necessity, through sheer force of will. But his simple acknowledgment of the trauma cracks something in my maintained composure.

“I killed someone,” I say, the words finally spoken aloud between us. “I picked up your gun, and I shot a man in the throat and watched him die.”

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