Page 30 of Charming Villain

“I’m fine,” I say quickly, turning my body away. The fish hisses behind me, sauce sputtering, but I can’t focus on that. My mind is stuck on the agony pulsing in my palm. “Dinner’s almost ready,” I add, trying to sound composed, but my voice wavers.

Luciano steps forward, crossing the kitchen in two purposeful strides. “Stop,” he orders, and his hand darts out, catching me by the wrist with surprising speed. Before I can pull away or protest, he gently but firmly pries my fingers open, one by one. I let out a small whimper of protest, but it’s too late—he sees the burn already searing across my skin, a furious red bloom that’s starting to blister.

A look crosses his face that I’ve never seen before. There’s something dark and pained in his eyes, a recognition that goes beyond sympathy. For a second, he’s motionless, lips parted like he’s remembering something personal, something that makes his jaw tighten and his shoulders tense. Then he grips my wrist more carefully, his touch becoming impossibly gentle as he guides me toward the sink with steady determination.

“Cold water,” he mutters, reaching to turn on the tap. “Keep it under there.”

I hiss as the water hits my burn, the contrast stinging at first but then easing into a dull throb. My eyes squeeze shut.It hurts. God, it hurts so much.Still, Luciano’s hand stays on mine, steadying my trembling fingers under the stream. He doesn’t speak for a moment, and I can feel his gaze on my face. The fish continues to sizzle on the stove, the sauce crackling in the pan, but he doesn’t spare it a glance.

“I told you I’m—” I start, but he cuts me off.

“Shut up,” he says without heat. “You’re not fine. Burns are serious, Gianna.”

The memory of my father burning our family crest into his chest must be on his mind. He understands how burns feel, how the pain lingers. My throat clenches with conflicting emotions. He’s the last person I want to see me like this. Yet I can’t deny the relief that floods through my nervous system as the cold water numbs the agony inch by inch.

He glances over his shoulder, noticing the fish. “It’s burning.”

“Dinner—”

“I’ll handle it,” Luciano says with an edge in his voice. “Keep your hand under the water.”

I watch, stunned, as he turns off the stove and slides the skillet away from the burner. He checks the pasta quickly, tosses it in a strainer, then moves it off the heat before returning to my side. The entire sequence is efficient and controlled—no wasted movements. Even a bit graceful, if I’m honest.

“How bad does it hurt?” he asks, turning off the faucet. Water drips from my hand, giving way to returning fire.

“Bad enough,” I admit, and my voice sounds small. My legs feel shaky—from the burn, from the closeness of his body next to mine, from the mingled scents of wine sauce and soap.

Luciano rummages in a nearby drawer and pulls out a first-aid kit I didn’t know existed. He sets it on the counter, opens it, and rummages through gauze, ointments, and wraps. His expression is grim, his lips pressed into a thin line, and his dark brows furrowed in concentration. “Let me see it.”

His voice is firm, without the mocking lilt I’m used to. Nervously, I lift my hand, trying to keep it steady despite the tremors running through my arm. The burn is angry and raw, and my skin is bright red and is already beginning to swell. Small blisters dot near the center of my palm like tiny, painful pearls. The edges look inflamed, an even deeper crimson that spreads outward in uneven patches, and the sight of it makes tears prick my eyes again.

“Shit,” he exhales. “You really did a number on yourself.” He doesn’t wait for permission; he dabs antiseptic with excruciating delicacy, like he’s done this a hundred times. Maybe he has. My breath catches at the sting, but the cool relief is almost welcome after the scorching pain of the skillet.

The gentleness of Luciano’s touch startles me. He smears burn cream onto my palm, the thick ointment soothing in a way that almost makes me want to cry. “You should’ve told me right away,” he mutters. His voice is tight with something that sounds like anger, but it’s not directed at me, I realize. “Burns can get infected. They need proper care.”

I swallow hard, my throat tight with confusion.Why is he being so gentle?This man who’s threatened to use me as an instrument for his twisted idea of revenge, who speaks of ruining me with cold certainty. This man who forced me to suck his cock just a few days ago, leaving me feeling used and hollow. This man who’s held me and then pushed me away in almost the same breath, as if he can’t decide whether to cherish or destroy me. His contradictions make my head spin and leave me dizzy with uncertainty about what he truly wants from me.

“I don’t want to bother you,” I manage lamely.

Luciano glances up, dark eyes flashing. “Don’t be stupid, Gianna. I know about burns.” His gaze flicks to his chest for the barest second, and my heart lurches. “You tell me next time, understand?”

I nod, swallowing past a lump in my throat. Before I can respond, he starts wrapping my hand in gauze, each movement precise and slow. I stand there, helpless, my breath catching every time his fingers brush my skin.This is too intimate.It reminds me of a dream I might’ve had in some other life, where a man cares about my well-being without agenda or violence.

My mind drifts to the fish waiting on the stove. I probably ruined dinner. “I messed up,” I frown. “Dinner...”

He cuts off a piece of gauze and secures the bandage with a small strip of medical tape. “It’s just fish,” he says gruffly. “It’s not worth worrying about.”

Luciano’s hand remains on mine, thumb ghosting over the bandage as though ensuring it’s tight but not constricting. A hush settles between us, and we’re both still, our bodies too close. The heat in his gaze is different from the kind that sears me in lust or anger. This is gentler, deeper, something I’m not prepared for.

“I…” I start, not sure what I’m even trying to say. An apology? A thank-you? My heart stutters and my eyes flick to his mouth, which is parted slightly as though he’s about to speak.Is he going to tell me to get out of his sight again?

But he doesn’t move away. Instead, his gaze drifts over my face, lingering on my cheeks and lips. A strange longing thrums in my chest, an ache that isn’t from the burn but from the terrifying need to be touched by him.

I find myself thinking,Is he going to kiss me?The question is a lightning bolt in my mind, crackling through every nerve ending until my skin tingles with anticipation, and before I can muster enough sense to pull away, he does.

It’s not a brutal, punishing kiss like I might have imagined. It’s soft, tentative, laced with the same warmth that tinted his touch as he bandaged my hand. His lips brush mine like he’s asking a question, not demanding an answer. My thoughts go static, dissolving into white noise that drowns out everything but the sensation of his closeness. I let out a small sound of surprise, something between a gasp and a sigh, my half-lidded eyes fluttering shut as the world narrows to this single moment.

The slow press of Luciano’s mouth sends warmth flooding through my body. It’s nothing like the scorching heat of the skillet. This burn is sweeter,a curling ache in my stomach that makes my knees weak. I don’t even realize I’m leaning into him until I feel his free hand curve around my uninjured wrist, gently steadying me.

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