Page 29 of Blood and Beauty (Owned by The Don)

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After a long day of cooking and reading, I sit in the lavish, Victorian style living room that's connected to the dining hall. The fireplace is lit, and a guard stands in the entryway with his back to me. I stare into the fire and hear the chimes of the big clock in the corner.

It's eleven at night and Dante still isn't back yet. I'm not waiting around for him, I'm just restless in my room. The library is obviously off limits, and I really don't want to spend more time in a hot kitchen smelling like chorizo.

I'm just about to doze off when I hear a sudden crash by the front door. Frightened, I stand up straight and look to the guard ahead. He seems unbothered so I inch closer to the entryway. It is within seconds that I see Dante rush past the foyer, cursing and holding a bunched-up shirt to his naked chest.

What happened?

For some reason that I can't even begin to explain, I feel a sense of worry slip inside my stomach. I brush past the guard and follow Dante towards the library. He hears my footsteps and stops without turning. I can both see and hear his sigh. His head is tipped back and he's staring at the ceiling.

Is he frustrated by my very presence? He didn't seem that way last night when he was tongue deep inside of me.

I blush at the intruding thought and ignore his annoyed stance, approaching him with caution. My eyes are focused on the bunched-up shirt he clutches to his chest. I can see spots of blood on it from here.

"What happened?"

"Go to your room, Esmeralda." He sounds annoyed, but fuck him. He doesn't get to pick and choose when he wants my company. He has me on lockdown and touches me whenever he pleases. I deserve some acknowledgement and answers when I want it.

"You don't get to boss me around, not after last night. Now, what happened to you?"

His low snicker is cynical and makes me stomp towards him like a child.

"I think I will get to boss you around,especiallyafter what happened last night. Now go to your room, pequeña."

I ignore everything he just said as my hands travel to the bloodied shirt. It is now that I can see more than a few drops of blood. The shirt is soaked through and for some reason I know he's been shot or stabbed. Especially with the way he's grinding his teeth and clenching his fists. He's clearly in pain.

"Were you shot?" I ask quietly. He seems annoyed by this because the groan he lets out is long and exasperated.

"It is none of your concern. Now. Go. To. Your. Room."

I bite my lip and his eyes watch the movement, darkening to almost black. It's so weird how his eyes change color so frequently. I realize it's the best way I can gauge his emotions, since he's so hard at fucking showing them.

"I'll be twenty-one in one hour Dante. I can legally do whatever I want in this country now. Quit bossing me around like I'm naive. I can help you with your wound. Trust me, I'm more than experienced."

He eyes me darkly, traveling around my chest before resting them on my face.

"Whether you're experienced or not, I don't need the help."

"It wasn't a request." He almost smiles at the comment, and it makes my stomach do that flippy thing again. Even when he's an arrogant prick, I find that I actually kind of like our banter.

I really am a masochist.

A few minutes of silence stretch and we're just staring at each other, almost like we're trying to figure one another out, trying to see if there's an ulterior motive lurking beneath our surfaces. He finally nods slowly and walks towards his bedroom, and I follow suit.

Once inside, he leads us to his bathroom. I never got a chance to look at it, but as soon as he turns the light on I'm mesmerized.

It's all black and gold. The color scheme and structure give a modern, but Victorian theme. The walls are black stone. The whole left side of the room has a shower with sliding glass doors and shelves that hold candles. The floating sinks and fancy mirrors are all framed with gold plating, but it's the tub that holds my interest.

Set in the middle of the large stone room was a three-step platform that held a square and stone tub as large as the kitchen island. It was beautiful. This bathroom was designed for a king. An illegal and intimidating king at that.

He sits down on a gold stool to the right of the sink, gently peeling away the blood-soaked shirt and dropping it to the floor. I look at the wound, a perfect circle the size of my fingertip oozing fresh blood. Definitely a gunshot.

"I got the bullet out. It was more of a graze. But I need it stitched."

I stitched my mom's hand once, a butterfly stitch. I can tell this requires a lot more than that. I start to feel intimidated, but I don't show it. I don't even ask how he got it. I know I'd get a limited and evasive response anyway.

He pulls out a small first aid kit from a drawer and grabs a needle from it. My eyes widen and he cocks a dark eyebrow at me.

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