Page 43 of Sexted By a Stranger
"Luca." I leaned closer, my voice hoarse and barely more than a whisper. "Can you hear me? It's me, Sheila."
Only his ragged breathing answered me.
The tears I'd been fighting surged up again, hot and unstoppable.
That's when his right hand shot up, clamping around my wrist like a burning vise.
I gasped at the pain but didn't dare pull away, terrified of aggravating his wound.
His thick lashes fluttered violently, cracked lips moving urgently as fevered words tumbled out.
"Sheila, stellina, run! Get out!"
"Danger, run…"
"Go, now…"
Each broken plea was saturated with raw terror.
The dam finally burst. Tears streamed down my face as understanding crashed over me.
This powerful, enigmatic man who seemed invincible—in his delirium, his only thought was my safety. This pure, selfless protection that disregarded his own life was branded into my very soul, more binding than any vow could ever be.
"Luca, I'm here," I choked out, using every ounce of strength to turn my trapped hand and interlace our fingers tightly. Our palms pressed together with desperate force, as if I could channel all my strength, all my warmth, my very life force through that connection.
His delirious rambling continued in broken fragments, each word slicing through me like shrapnel.
I love this man.
I loved the vulnerable softness beneath his granite exterior, loved the heart that beat so wildly for me inside that powerful frame.
"I'm not running." I lowered myself carefully, resting my cheek against the uninjured side of his chest.
"You idiot." My voice was thick with tears as they rolled silently down my cheeks. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
"You'd throw your life away for me, so I'm staying right here with you."
I clung to his burning hand like it was my only anchor in a storm-tossed sea.
A subtle tremor beneath my fingertips jolted me awake.
My bleary gaze collided with a pair of deep brown eyes slowly blinking open. Exhaustion from his ordeal clouded their depths, but that penetrating intensity remained undimmed.
"Luca!" The word burst out in a rush of overwhelming relief that left me dizzy, stealing the breath from my lungs. Instinct screamed at me to leap up and get the doctor, but my body—stiff and numb from hours of holding vigil—betrayed me. My knees buckled, nearly sending me sprawling.
"Sheila." His voice was like gravel scraping over broken glass, devastatingly hoarse. His uninjured right hand had somehow found its way to cover mine, where it clutched desperately at his hospital gown.
The warmth of his palm seeped through my skin, thawing the ice that had encased my heart for the past twenty-four hours of terror.
"It's okay," he repeated, his gaze heavy and searching as it roamed my face, those deep brown pools swirling with unspoken words. He was checking me over, confirming I was unharmed, while simultaneously trying to soothe a frightened bird. "Just a scratch."
"A scratch?" Fresh tears spilled over, all my pent-up fear and anguish pouring out. "That was a special bullet. It almost… almost hit your heart. You lost so much blood… your fever wouldn't break… How can you call that a scratch?" My voice fractured into pieces, like a child who'd finally found safety after being lost and could unleash all their terror and hurt.
"Don't cry." He exhaled softly, his brow furrowing almost imperceptibly at my tears, as if each droplet caused him more agony than the vicious wound in his shoulder. His hand on mine, though weak, began to pull with stubborn insistence.
He drew my trembling hand—drew all of me—inexorably closer.
I blinked through my tears, watching in bewilderment as his sharply defined face filled my vision.
