CHAPTER 13: Tending the Wounds

The ride back to the Thorne Tower was a blur of rain, sirens, and deathly silence.

Julian spent the entire trip on his phone, his voice a low, lethal growl as he barked orders to his security teams. He wouldn't look at me. He sat rigid, his knuckles white as he gripped his phone, radiating waves of fury.

When we pulled into the underground garage, it looked like a military base. Dozens of armed guards surrounded the SUV before we could even open the doors.

We were rushed up to the penthouse in the private elevator. The moment the doors closed, sealing us inside the silent glass fortress, the adrenaline crashed out of me.

My knees buckled.

Julian caught me. Again.

"I've got you," he murmured.

He swung me up into his arms, carrying me bridal style into the living room. He deposited me gently onto the plush velvet sofa.

"Stay here," he commanded, turning toward the bar. "I need a drink."

I watched him walk away. Now that the chaos had settled, I could see the damage. His suit jacket was torn at the shoulder. The white shirt underneath was stained red. He was moving stiffly, favoring his left side.

"Julian," I said, my voice raspy. "You're hurt badly."

"It’s a scratch," he dismissed, pouring amber liquid into a glass with a steady hand. He downed it in one gulp.

"It’s not a scratch. You're bleeding through your shirt." I stood up, my legs shaky but holding. "Let me see."

He turned, his gray eyes hard. "I said I'm fine, Vivian. Go to your room."

"No." I walked toward him. I was terrified of him twenty minutes ago, but now, seeing the blood he shed for me, I felt something else. Something dangerous like gratitude. "You threw yourself in front of bullets for me. The least I can do is clean the wound."

He stared at me for a long beat, his jaw working. He looked exhausted. The mask of the untouchable billionaire was cracked.

Without a word, he set the glass down and shrugged off his ruined jacket.

My breath hitched.

He began to unbutton his bloodstained shirt. His movements were slow, painful. He hissed in a breath as he pulled the fabric away from his left shoulder.

He let the shirt fall to the floor.

I had seen him in t-shirts, but I had never seen him like this. His back and arms were a canvas of intricate, dark tattoos—serpents, skulls, and Latin script wrapping around corded muscle.

But my eyes were drawn to the angry purple bruise flowering across his entire left shoulder blade, and the jagged cut running down his bicep where the glass had sliced him.

"Oh my god, Julian," I whispered, reaching out before I could stop myself. My fingertips hovered over the bruised skin.

He flinched. Not away from me, but into my touch.

"Where is the first-aid kit?" I asked, my voice trembling.

He nodded toward the bathroom off the master suite.

I retrieved the kit and dragged a barstool over to where he stood by the island. "Sit."

To my surprise, he obeyed.

I stood between his knees, the scent of copper blood, expensive scotch, and his own musk filling my senses. My hands shook as I soaked a cotton pad in antiseptic.

"This is going to sting," I warned.

I pressed the pad to the cut on his arm.

His entire body went rigid. His hands gripped the edge of the marble counter so hard his knuckles turned white. A low groan rumbled deep in his chest, but he didn't pull away.

"Sorry," I murmured, working quickly to clean the glass shards from the wound.

I moved to his face, to the cut on his high cheekbone. I had to step closer, my thighs brushing against his knees. I tilted his chin up so I could see.

His eyes were open, watching me. They were dark, dilated, and intense.

"Why did you do it?" I asked softly, dabbing at the cut near his eye.

"Do what?" his voice was gravelly.

"You covered me. You used your own body as a shield. You could have been killed." I stopped cleaning and looked into his eyes. "You told me I was just an asset. You don't take bullets for assets, Julian. You trade them."

He went still. His hand reached up and grabbed my wrist, stopping my movements. His grip was firm, bordering on painful.

"Do not presume to know how I handle my business, Vivian."

"Then tell me," I challenged him, my heart pounding against his arm. "Tell me the truth for once. Why did you save me?"

He stared at me, a war raging behind his eyes. He looked at my lips, then back up to my eyes.

He pulled me closer until there was barely an inch between us.

"Because," he whispered, his voice rough with something that sounded terribly like want, "the thought of them spilling your blood on the pavement made me want to burn this entire city to ash."

He released my wrist.

"Finish up, nurse. I have a war to plan."