“You hurt yourself,” I accuse.
“No,youhurt me.I wouldn’t have spilled if you hadn’t snuck up on me,” she snaps.
Her scowl steals the last of my frustrations away.She looks so much healthier than this morning.It feels like a miracle after fearing I’d lose her for so long.I cup her cheek and lean down for a much-needed kiss.It’s been way too long since I’ve tasted her sweetness.
She stiffens and leans away.
“Why do you smell like blood?”she asks.
Fuck.My woman is too perceptive.
She grabs the lapels of Noah’s coat and shoves it off my shoulders.I hiss as the material catches on my wound.Her horrified gasp and wide eyes stun me into silence.
“Mario!Che cazzo?!Howdareyou?”
She yanks the jacket off my uninjured arm and is slightly gentler with the other before stomping across the kitchen and snatching the shears out of the knife block.
“You fuckingstronzo,” she growls as she marches toward me.She’s so stunning I don’t move to protect myself despite the aggression in her every gesture.I’ll happily take a knife if it means watching her in all her glorious fury.
“I can’t believe you were going to lecture me over a tiny burn when you came home with a gunshot wound.”
She cuts my sleeve and peels the fabric away from my torn flesh.
“Fucking goddamn asshole.”
She slaps my sternum and pierces my soul with her bright blue eyes.
“You should’ve tried harder not to get hurt,coglione.”
I wrap my fingers around her wrist and lift her hand to my eye level.
“You should have, too,” I snarl.
The red blotch on the back of her hand won’t blister, but the tips of her fingers have dark spots.
“How did you hurt yourself here?”I ask as I circle her fingertips.
“I already had those,” she says.
“Since when?”I ask.
“Sincedaddy dearestdecided we needed to remove all traces of Mamma from our lives and burned my favorite doll.I barely saved a lock of her hair.”
The disdain in her voice holds the same fury as mine.
“How didyouhurt yourself?”she demands with a glance at my shoulder.
“I didn’t dodge fast enough,” I deflect.“What are you doing in the kitchen?”Whatever she spilled smells sweet.“You don’t need to cook,paperotta.I—” My thoughts dry up when I glance at the counter.The ingredients are food related but not food.
She sighs and hands me her phone.
“Check the search history,” she mumbles.
I pull up her browser, open the search history, and stare at the list.
why does my scar itch after ten years
how to stop old scars from itching
