Page 30 of Lorenzo's Claim

I had just put a tray of muffins in the oven when I heard the front door open and close. His men entered the kitchen first, startled by me standing there. I didn’t bat an eyelid to them strolling in so late. I was used to it.

“Shit, sorry, Ana. We just needed a drink.” Red held up his bloody hand, but it wasn’t his own blood, that much was obvious.

“No worries.” I grabbed the whiskey from the cabinet and slid it across the counter followed by tumblers.

“Cheers, A.” Emmet tipped his head with thanks.

Another new nickname. Not that I minded when it came from any of these guys. They were pretty decent compared to some others I grew up around.

I glanced up as Lorenzo came into view. His clothes were drenched in blood, the dark crimson staining his shirt, pants, and even his face. His left hand was sliced open as dried blood decorated his wedding band while fresh blood dripped down hisfingers onto the marble floor. The wound I inflicted on him last night was split open as blood continued to seep out. He looked like a man who had just emerged from hell.

“What the hell happened to you?!” I asked, trying to not sound worried.

Lorenzo’s head snapped up, his gaze locking onto mine like a predator. His face relaxed for a split second, before his jaw tensed once more.

“You don’t need to worry, it’s nothing,” he growled, his voice rough and low.

He tried to step past me to grab a drink, but I stopped him.

“Get out of the way, Ana,” he sighed, and for a second it almost sounded like he was trying to be somewhat nice.

Who was I kidding, he wasn’t nice.

“No, let me see your wound first,” I prompted, crossing my arms over my chest as I continued to block his path.

He let out a bitter, hollow laugh, the sound grating against the silence. “You mean, the one you inflicted on me yesterday?” He breathed. “Save your compassion. I don’t need it.” His words were meant to hurt, but they didn’t even break the surface with me. He tried to brush past me again, but I stood my ground, my gaze unwavering.

“It’s not compassion,” I muttered, reaching out to grab his arm before he had time to snatch it away. He flinched, his body tensing beneath my hold. “Sit your stubborn ass down,” I demanded, which was something he clearly wasn’t used to.

He ripped his arm away as his voice dropped into a dangerous whisper. “Don’t pretend you actually give a shit, Ana. We both know you would rather I bleed to death.” His words were as harsh as a slap, cold and cruel, but there was a flicker of truth in them that I couldn’t deny.

My jaw tightened, my lips pressing into a thin line, and for a moment, I wanted to walk away. Instead, I grabbed the first aidkit from the cupboard beside me. “It won’t take long and then we can carry on as we were.”

He reluctantly surrendered to the situation, peeling off his shirt with a resigned shrug, his eyes fixing on me with a complex blend of amusement and simmering resentment. The atmosphere between us felt heavy and charged, a palpable tension that was unmistakable to anyone nearby, like an electrified wire humming with our shared animosity.

I set to work cleaning the wound with an antibacterial wipe, the sharp scent of antiseptic mingling with the air, while his expression remained impassive and indifferent, a mask of stoicism. The silence was a welcome balm, a brief respite from our unspoken conflict, until he broke it, his voice cutting through the stillness.

“You think you’re so much better than me, don’t you?” he asked, downing the drink Red handed him. It was clear he already had a few wherever he’d been and didn’t need anymore.

“You prove just how much better I am than you with each passing day. I don’t need to think about it.” I scoffed, not giving him the satisfaction of arguing. He wasn’t worth it.

He let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “You’ll only ever be good enough to warm my bed for me.” He smirked. “Because remember, you’re mine.”

For a moment, I froze, but the anger quickly dominated my body as I slammed my fist into his face, the sound of the punch echoing the kitchen. “How about you fuck off, Lorenzo?” I shoved him off of me with such force even he was taken aback. “I hope you rot in hell.”

His hand flew to his mouth, fresh blood from his split lip smearing on his thumb. A twisted smirk played on his face as he wiped the blood away. “Fuck this. I’m going to bed.”

He stormed out of the kitchen and thudded up the stairs, blood still trailing behind him. My hand was throbbing as Iwatched him go, but the pain was nothing compared to the rage that continued to course through my veins. I hated everything about him. The way he spoke. The way he made me feel and just him in general.

“Are you okay, Ana?” Red asked, retrieving ice from the freezer. “Give me your hand.” I did as he asked, letting him place the ice on my knuckles.

“Why is his face so fucking hard?” I laughed, trying to make light of the situation.

“He didn’t mean what he said. He had a shitty night, and he shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” Emmet softly smiled from the chair.

“Let me guess, it was a torture that ended in no answers?”

“How did you know that?” Red asked, genuine confusion written all over his face.

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