Page 21 of Tainted Obsession 1
I grasp her dainty hand in mine and lead her toward the bedroom where I’ve been staying for the last few weeks. Her footsteps falter on the carpet, but I don’t slow to give her time to question me.
When we enter the massive bedroom, she sucks in a soft gasp and tries to dig in her heels. She trips over those damned loose shoelaces.
I grasp her waist, steadying her before she falls again, like she had on the concrete outside her apartment.
“Are you hurt?” I ask. “You fell.”
I take her hands in mine and gently lift them so that I can study her palms. They’re smudged with dirt where she hit the grubby sidewalk, but the scrapes aren’t deep enough to have drawn blood.
“I’m fine,” she replies in little more than a whisper.
Her lovely eyes begin to shine, and her throat works as her emotions surge. A single tear rolls down her cheek, and I brush it away.
“You’re safe now,” I promise. “I’ve got you.”
“I don’t understand…” Her chest heaves, but she forces in a deep breath. “What’s happening? I don’t even know your name.”
“I’m Massimo.” Suddenly, I crave to hear the sound of my name in her breathy whisper. “I’m not going to let anyone hurt you ever again.”
She swallows hard and blinks away more tears, summoning up the quiet strength I’ve glimpsed before. I want to tell her that she doesn’t have to be strong around me; she can cry, and I’m more than happy to hold her.
But she’s still wearing Crawford’s shirt, and I won’t be able to shake the last of my rage until she takes it off. My fingers itch with the urge to finish ripping it off her, but that’ll scare her even more.
I step away from her and quickly stride to the chest of drawers where I’ve stashed my own clothes. I grab a soft black t-shirt—a clean version of the blood-soaked shirt that covers my injured torso.
Now that the adrenaline is fading, the burning in my side is becoming more insistent, and I’m aware of how the wet cotton sticks to my skin. The graze probably isn’t deep enough to need stitches, but I’m still bleeding sluggishly.
I drape my clean shirt over her shaking hands, which are still palms-up where I’d lifted them to inspect her for damage. She’s frozen, posed like a doll, and her eyes are going glassy with shock.
I cup her chilled cheeks in both hands, trying to imbue her with my warmth.
“Look at me,” I command, a firm order.
She blinks, and her lovely eyes focus on mine once again.
“Good girl.”
Some of the tension eases from her slight body.
I stroke the lines of her cheekbones, leaving a crimson smear over her creamy complexion.
Shit.
My hand is still wet with my blood, and I’ve marred her with the sign of violence.
I quickly brush it away with my other thumb, but a pink flush marks the spot where my blood taints her perfection.
I force myself to pull away before I imprint her with more signs of violence.
“Change out of that bloody shirt,” I order, my voice holding a harsher rumble than I’d intended.
I need her out of Crawford’s shirt, all signs of his claim over her destroyed.
“Now,” I prompt, crossing my arms over my chest to prevent myself from tearing it off her.
Her hands tremble slightly as she tugs his ruined shirt from her body, revealing modest curves that are barely concealed by the fitted pink camisole. Somehow, I force my gaze to remain steady on hers rather than studying her feminine form; now isn’t the time to devour her with my hungry gaze.
She drops the bloody shirt to the floor, and I kick it farther away. I’ll burn the damn thing later if I get the chance.
