Page 82 of Deadly Obsession
“No. Sage, listen to me. There’s no way Chase would have known the details of our plan or the day we were going to confront Finn.”
I let out a relieved sob, and Elias squeezes me a little bit tighter. I don’t even care that I can barely breathe. I wouldlet him suffocate me right now to silence the worry taking over my thoughts.
We stand there for a few minutes while this big, scary mobster soothes me. A part of me feels like I don’t deserve his gentle touches. The way he rubs his large hand up and down my spine. How he kisses the top of my head. How I feelsafein the hands of a man who uses them to end lives.
Out of all the women who walked through the doors of his club in Park Slope, he chose me. I mean, sure it was all about fucking at first, and yeah, he’s a little stalkerish.
But he’smyobsessive stalkerish mafia boss.
I pull out of his embrace... and immediately notice fresh blood on my arm.
“What the hell? Elias, are you hurt? Is this your blood?”
I start patting him down. He’s wearing all black, which makes it difficult to locate the wound.
“Sage, I’m fine.”
I ignore him and graze my fingertips up and down his chest and stomach then to his arms. He hisses when they skim over his right shoulder. I pull my hand away and find blood on the fingertips. Without saying a word, I take him by the wrist and drag him to the bathroom.
“Why didn’t you go to someone to get this taken care of?” I ask, sitting him down on the toilet seat.
“One of my medics got the bullets out. I wouldn’t let him stitch me up.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“Because I needed them to treat my soldiers who had far worse injuries than me.”
He says it so casually like his life isn’t as important.
I know that’s a trauma response of always being in charge and having no one to take care of him, especially growing up. It hurts my heart that he’s never had the gentle touch of someone who cares about him.
At least, not since his mother died.
I don’t know his relationship history, but I’m going to guess that he hasn’t let anyone get close to him.
I have to wonder why I’m different.
The bandage that was slapped over the bullet hole in Elias’s shoulder is doing nothing to stop the blood. It’s soaked through the dark shirt he’s wearing.
“Elias, you need stitches.”
“I know.”
“Can’t you call that doctor who came over to help with your allergies that one time?”
“He’s a doctor who makes home visits to Johnny Goode, business owner, not Elias Carter, mafia boss.”
“Then what was your plan?”
“Stitch myself up. The wounds aren’t that bad. Mostly superficial.”
Shaking my head, I turn to the closet in his bathroom. A first aid kit sits on the middle shelf. It’s not your typical first aid kit. It’s bigger with a lot more supplies.
Because he gets injured all the time.
The thought both angers and saddens me. I remember seeing the scars on his other arm and shoulder and on the right side of his stomach. I counted five little circles total.
And that doesn’t include scars from stab wounds and the ones he’s yet to tell me about.
