Page 37 of Forbidden Daddy
"You’re bleeding," I said, reaching for his shoulder.
He caught my wrist before I could touch him. "I’m fine."
"You’re not fucking fine!" The words exploded out of me with more force than I’d intended. "Look at you! Look at all of you!"
Roman’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t let go of my wrist. The other men filed past us toward the stairs, leaving bloody footprints on the pristine marble. I could hear them muttering to each other, but all I could focus on was the way Roman’s grip trembled slightly against my skin.
"You could’ve died," I whispered, and the words came out broken.
Something flickered across his features—surprise, maybe, at the naked fear in my voice. For a moment, the mask slipped completely, and I saw the exhaustion underneath. The weight of carrying an empire on his shoulders. The cost of betrayal from someone he’d trusted.
"But I didn’t."
"That’s not good enough." I pulled free from his grip and grabbed his uninjured arm. "Sit down. Now."
For a second, I thought he might refuse. Roman Creed didn’t take orders from anyone, least of all from his assistant-turned-fake-fiancée. But something in my tone must’ve gotten through, because he let me guide him to one of the leather chairs in the foyer.
I disappeared into the kitchen and returned with the first-aid kit I’d seen stashed under the sink, along with a bottle of whiskey and clean towels. Roman watched me with those piercing blue eyes as I knelt beside his chair, but he didn’t protest when I started working the tactical vest off his shoulders.
The fabric underneath was soaked through with blood.
"Fuck," I muttered, carefully peeling the shirt away from his skin. The bullet had caught him high on the shoulder, through and through, thank God, but the wound was still bleeding sluggishly.
Roman hissed as I cleaned it with antiseptic, his hand fisting in the chair’s leather armrest. I worked in silence, my hands steadier than they had any right to be, given the way my heart was racing. But I’d done this before—patched up my father after bar fights when I was ten, stitched my own cuts after kitchen accidents.
This was different, though. This was Roman, and seeing him hurt made something primitive and fierce claw at my chest.
"You’re good at this," he observed, his voice rough.
"My dad was military," I reminded him without looking up. "He taught me field medicine before he taught me to drive."
I could feel his gaze on my face as I worked, studying me with that intensity that made my skin prickle with awareness. Even bloody and exhausted, Roman Creed was the most magnetic man I’d ever met.
"The meeting was a trap," he said suddenly.
My hands paused on the bandage I was wrapping around his shoulder. "I figured."
"Someone knew exactly where we’d be. Exactly when. They had us surrounded before we even knew what was happening." His voice was carefully controlled, but I could hear the rage simmering underneath. "Three of my men are in the hospital. Two more won’t be coming home."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Men had died tonight. Good men, loyal men, who’d followed Roman into what they thought was a routine operation.
"I’m sorry," I whispered.
Roman’s hand covered mine, stilling my movements. When I looked up, his eyes were dark with something I couldn’t name. "You don’t apologize for other people’s choices, Cassie."
But I could see the weight of those choices crushing him. The responsibility for every life lost, every family destroyed. This was the cost of the world he inhabited—the price of power measured in blood and betrayal.
I finished bandaging his shoulder in silence, hyper-aware of every point where our skin touched. When I was done, Roman caught my chin with his fingers, tilting my face up to meet his gaze.
"Anton’s alive."
My heart stuttered. I remembered that name, the way Roman’s voice had gone cold when he’d told me about his former right hand. The man who’d betrayed him, sold him out to rival families, and nearly gotten him killed. The man Roman had put two bullets into before dumping his body in the Hudson.
"That’s impossible," I breathed.
"I saw him in one of the cars we passed when we drove off. Or someone who looked exactly like him." Roman’s thumb traced along my jawline, and I had to fight not to lean into the touch. "Either way, someone’s playing games with ghosts."
The implications hit me like ice water. If Antonwasalive, if he’d somehow survived Roman’s execution, then this wasn’t just about a mole in the organization. This was personal. This was revenge.
