Chapter 8: *****

"Move! Now!" Damiano roared against my ear.

The automatic gunfire was still chewing through the walls of the bedroom, sending chunks of wood and plaster raining down on us. He didn't wait for me to answer. He yanked me up by my arm, keeping his large body positioned between me and the shattered window, and shoved me toward a wood-paneled walk-in closet.

"They're going to get inside!" I yelled, my voice cracking as my bare feet slipped on the loose shards of glass covering the carpet.

"They won't," Damiano grunted, slamming his hand against a hidden latch disguised as a clothing rack inside the closet.

A heavy section of the wall clicked and swung inward, revealing a steep, concrete staircase illuminated by dim, low lights. He pushed me inside first, immediately slamming the reinforced steel door shut behind us. The sudden silence was absolute. The thudding echo of the gunfire outside vanished completely, cut off by inches of solid steel and concrete.

"Are you hit?" I gasped, my chest heaving as I looked up at him in the narrow staircase.

"No," he said, but his voice was tight.

He led the way down the steps into a compact, underground bunker. The room was cold, walled with bare gray concrete, containing nothing but a leather cot, a metal table, and a wall of security monitors displaying the dark, empty perimeter of the estate. The gunfire had stopped on the screens, the attackers already scattering into the trees.

As Damiano stepped under the harsh fluorescent bulb of the bunker, I saw it. Dark, thick blood was pouring down his left arm, soaking into the waistband of his dark gray sweatpants. A deep, jagged graze cut across his shoulder blade, the flesh torn open and raw.

"You're bleeding," I said, pointing a shaking finger at his shoulder. "You need a doctor. Call an ambulance or tell Viktor to get a medical team down here."

"No doctors," Damiano snapped, his jaw tight as he walked over to a metal cabinet. He threw it open with one hand, grabbed a heavy plastic medical kit, and hurled it across the room. It landed on the metal table with a loud, plastic clatter. "You do it."

"Me?" I stepped back, my hands flying to my chest. "Are you insane? I'm not a nurse! I just graduated with a degree in literature, Damiano! I don't know how to patch up a gunshot wound!"

"It's a graze," he said, turning his back to me and sitting down heavily on the edge of the low leather cot. He winced slightly, the muscles in his back flaring as he braced himself. "The kit has lidocaine, a needle, and sterile thread. Clean the dirt out first, then stitch it shut."

"I told you, no!" I shouted, the sheer adrenaline of the attack making my voice ring off the concrete walls. "Call your men! Let them do it! I'm not touching you!"

"Viktor and the rest of the security team are securing the perimeter," Damiano said, his black eyes locking onto mine with an unyielding, intense focus. "I am not bringing an outsider into this bunker tonight, and I am not bleeding out on this floor before my wedding. Sit down, Valentina. Do your job."

"This is not my job!"

"You signed the contract," he reminded me, his voice dangerously low, cutting through my panic. "Your father is alive right now because of that ink. Now pick up the needle."

I stared at him, my breath rattling in my throat. The hatred I felt for him was still hot, but looking at the blood pooling on the concrete floor, a sick feeling settled in my stomach. If he bled out, if he died right here, the contract died with him, and his men would have no reason to keep my dad safe. I was trapped.

"Fine," I spat, my hands shaking violently as I walked over to the metal table.

I popped the plastic clips of the medical kit open. Inside were bottles of antiseptic, curved suture needles, a plastic thread spool, and gauze. I grabbed a bottle of clear antiseptic and a thick stack of sterile pads, my fingers fumbling with the plastic wrapping until I managed to tear it open.

I walked over to the cot, but Damiano was sitting too low, his massive shoulders blocking my access to the wound.

"I can't reach it like this," I said, my voice tight. "Stand up."

"If I stand, you won't be able to hold your hands steady enough to thread the needle," he said, his face a hard mask of indifference. He looked up at me, his eyes tracking the nervous tremor in my fingers. "Get up here."

"What?"

"Sit on my lap," Damiano ordered, tapping his uninjured right thigh. "It's the only way you'll have the leverage to pull the thread through cleanly. Do it now."

"I am not sitting on your lap," I hissed.

"Then watch me bleed," he replied, leaning back slightly, his face pale but his expression completely unbothered by the threat. "Every second you waste makes the skin harder to stitch."

I clamped my teeth together so hard my jaw ached. I wanted to slap him again, but the heavy scent of copper in the air reminded me of the high stakes. I stepped forward, my breath hitching as I carefully lowered myself down onto his lap, straddling his uninjured right thigh.

The physical closeness was completely overwhelming.

The thin, backless silk of my dress offered no protection against the solid, burning heat of his skin. I could feel the hard, defined muscles of his thighs beneath me, the massive expanse of his chest just inches from my face. My chest rose and fell, my breath brushing against his collarbone. Every single instinct I had screamed at me to get away, but I forced myself to stay still.

"Don't move," I whispered, pouring the antiseptic directly onto a gauze pad.

"Just do it," he muttered.

I pressed the wet pad directly into the bloody graze.

Damiano didn't scream. He didn't even yell. His entire body went rigid as steel beneath me, a low, guttural grunt escaping his throat as his chest pressed hard against my front. I could feel the rapid, heavy thudding of his heart racing against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that matched my own hammering pulse. The sheer heat radiating off his bare skin felt suffocating in the cold bunker, making a strange, thick warmth curl deep in my stomach.

"You're... you're hurting," I muttered, my eyes fixated on the wound as I wiped away the dark red blood, exposing the torn, clean edges of the skin.

"I've felt worse," Damiano growled, his breath coming in short, hot puffs against my neck.

I picked up the curved needle, threading the dark sterile line through the small eye with hands that refused to stop shaking. I positioned the sharp metal point right at the edge of the torn flesh.

"This is going to hurt," I warned, looking up at him for a brief second.

"Just push it through, Valentina," he said.

I forced my fingers to squeeze, driving the needle deep into his skin.

Damiano didn't flinch. His jaw muscles clenched so tightly the bone looked ready to snap through his skin, but his upper body stayed perfectly still, giving me the steady surface I needed. I pulled the thread through, watching the skin close up, before looping the needle back around for the next stitch.

As I worked, the silence in the bunker grew heavy, thick with a strange, intense pressure. I forced my eyes to stay locked entirely on the stitches, refusing to look at his face, but I could feel his gaze. His black eyes weren't looking at the needle. They weren't looking at the wound.

He was staring directly at my lips.

The intensity of his stare felt like a physical touch, a raw, hungry focus that made my skin tingle and my stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with the blood. My breathing turned shallow, my movements slowing down as the suffocating heat between us grew tighter with every loop of the thread.

"Almost done," I whispered, my voice sounding incredibly small in the concrete room.

"Good," he muttered, his voice a rough, low rumble that vibrated right through my thighs.

I pulled the last loop tight, creating a neat, straight line of black knots across his shoulder. I picked up the small metal scissors from the kit and clipped the excess thread, my fingers brushing against the warm, smooth skin of his back as I finished.

"There," I said, trying to push myself up off his lap immediately to put some distance between us. "It's finished. Now let me—"

Before I could even shift my weight, Damiano’s hands shot out.

His large, calloused fingers wrapped firmly around both of my wrists, his grip instantly locking me in place on his lap. He didn't hurt me, but his hold was absolute. With a sharp, sudden jerk, he pulled my hands down to his chest, forcing my upper body forward until my face was bare inches from his.

I gasped, my lips almost touching his chin. The dark, hollow depth of his eyes was entirely focused on me, alive with a dangerous, unpredictable fire.

"Why are your hands shaking so badly, Valentina?" Damiano growled, his voice dropping to a rough, intimate whisper that sent a violent shiver straight down my spine. He didn't let go of my wrists, his fingers tightening just enough to keep me from pulling away. "Are you scared of the blood... or are you scared of how much you want me to kiss you right now?”