Page 50 of Blood Debt
I pull the old bottle out, drop it in the bin with a little too much satisfaction, and reach for the new one.
As I start unpacking the rest—bar soap, aftershave, cologne—I mutter under my breath.
“I hope this soap itches you to death.”
My fingers tighten around the bar as I toss it into the dish.
“Hope it makes your skin peel. Just a little.”
“Say that again?”
I freeze.
My heart slams against my ribs.
I look up—slowly.
Cristofano stands in the doorway, shirt half-buttoned, the crisp white fabric still clinging slightly to his damp skin. Hissleeves are rolled carelessly to the elbows. His collar hangs open, revealing the lean slope of his chest and a clean scar etched beneath his ribs. His dark trousers sit low on his hips, and his hair—wet and swept back—still drips faintly against his temples.
His eyes are locked on mine.
I blink once and manage a breath.
“I—I was singing,” I stammer, voice brittle. “Just…humming. To myself.”
“Sounded like a curse.”
I lower my gaze immediately. “No, sir.”
I move to leave, hands suddenly too full of bottles.
But before I make it to the doorway, I feel his hand close around my upper arm. He doesn’t pull, just holds me there like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Help me with something,” he says, voice low and even.
I nod and follow.
He leads me to the edge of his dressing area, where a fresh suit jacket hangs on a valet. He picks a tie and hands it to me.
I take it slowly. My fingers are cold.
“Put it on me,” he says.
I loop it over his neck, keeping distance, trying to knot it with as little contact as possible.
But he steps in. Closes the space between us.
One hand lands lightly on my waist and pulls me in.
My chest brushes his. My fingers freeze mid-loop.
I can feel the heat of his skin through his shirt. His breath is warm against my temple.
“What did we do?” he asks, voice low. “That night. When I was drunk and you took me back here.”
I swallow. My eyes flick up. He’s watching me. Why is he asking me this now?
I lie. “Nothing.”
