{ Enzo }
Her breathing stuttered, shallow and uneven. I sat frozen, eyes locked on the fragile rise and fall of her chest. Just one more breath, I told myself. Just one more. But then her lips parted, and the faintest whisper slipped out.
"Help… me."
The sound was barely there, yet it struck me like a blade between the ribs. My heart clenched, my throat tightening against the burn. She had no reason to ask me. She should've spat in my face, cursed me, fought me even in her broken state. And yet… she asked me.
I cursed under my breath, shoving back from the chair so violently it scraped against the floor. My hands trembled—not from fear, but from the storm tearing through me. I wasn't a doctor. I wasn't meant to heal. But I could pull a trigger, I could cut, I could carve. If I could destroy, I could damn well try to save.
I dragged the med kit from the drawer, the metal box clattering against the nightstand. My fingers worked with practiced precision, laying out gauze, alcohol, forceps. Tools I had once used for interrogation, now trembling in my hands for something I had never done before—gentleness.
Her body jolted when I cut away the blood-soaked fabric from her side, exposing the angry wound where the bullet had lodged. My jaw clenched hard enough to crack. My men had done this. My own orders had allowed it.
"Breathe," I muttered, though I wasn't sure if I was talking to her or myself.
The forceps slipped in, the metal glinting under the dim light. I could feel her flinch even unconscious, her fingers twitching against the sheets. My chest ached, but my grip never faltered. One bullet. Then another. Each one hitting the tray with a sharp clink, echoing like a curse.
Her blood slicked my gloves, hot and unrelenting. But with each shard of pain I drew from her body, something inside me twisted tighter. She was fighting to live—and now, so was I.
When the last bullet was out, I pressed the cloth hard to her wound, then wrapped it tight with bandages. My movements were rough, unpolished, but careful in their own way. I forced myself to breathe with her, to steady the rhythm that seemed to guide her chest to rise again, and again.
Finally, I sat back, staring at her. She looked less like prey now and more like… something else. Something untouchable. Blond strands had spilled fully free from her wig, fanning across my pillow like liquid gold. Her eyes fluttered half-open, just enough for a flash of that impossible blue.
And damn me, but I felt it then—the shift. The fracture. The moment the enemy I should've hated became the girl I couldn't look away from.
I dragged a hand over my face, smearing her blood across my cheek without caring. My chest burned, my pulse refusing to settle.
The stink of iron clung to the room, sharp and suffocating. She needed more than bandages. She needed rest, warmth… relief from this mess I'd pulled her into.
I pushed off the chair and stalked toward the washroom, each step heavier than the last. My reflection in the mirror sneered back at me—bloodstained, unrecognizable. I turned the taps, letting the porcelain tub thunder with rushing water. Steam began to curl upward, fogging the glass. I tested the temperature, adjusted it down, then again. Too hot would tear her wounds open. Too cold would shake her apart.
The scent of salts and oils filled the air, things I never bothered with, things I thought were pointless luxuries. Yet my hands reached for them anyway, pouring, mixing, watching the water swirl into pale blue ripples. I lined the edge of the tub with fresh towels, softer fabric than I'd ever touched myself.
I caught my reflection again. What the hell was I doing?
I prepared a bath. For her.
Me.
Enzo.
The thought alone made my chest twist. But the image of her shivering in bloodied rags… that was worse.
I strode back into the bedroom, forcing my voice steady though it came out rough. "Lucia. Ana."
Two of my staff slipped in silently, eyes downcast, not daring to meet mine. They froze when they saw her on my bed, golden hair spilling over the sheets, skin pale as marble.
"She needs to be bathed," I said, each word slow, deliberate. "Careful with her wounds. If you cause her more pain than she's already endured…" My jaw tightened. "…I'll make sure you regret it."
They nodded quickly.
For a heartbeat, I hovered, my gaze locked on her fragile form as they moved to lift her. My instincts screamed to keep her here, where I could see her, shield her. But I stepped back, forcing myself to the shadows of the doorway.
I couldn't be there for this. Not when every inch of me wanted to touch her—not in lust, not even in hunger, but in a way that terrified me more. To protect. To comfort.
The sound of water echoed from the washroom, mingled with the faintest sigh that slipped past her lips as the warmth enveloped her. My chest tightened until it hurt to breathe.
I braced both hands on the wall, head bowed. I should've walked away. Left her to heal, to wither, to hate me. But every splash, every hushed murmur from beyond that door tethered me tighter.
She was no pawn. No bargaining chip.
And God help me… she was becoming the one thing I swore I'd never need.
********
The wait carved me open. Every minute she was out of sight felt like a blade dragging deeper through my chest. I told myself it was better this way—that I didn't need to watch. That I shouldn't watch.
But when the door finally opened, and the women carried her back inside, my resolve snapped.
She was no longer the bloodied, broken thing they'd brought into my hands. Her skin was clean, pale fire against the white linen sheets. Damp strands of gold clung to her cheeks, catching the dim light like they had stolen it.
And then there was the shirt.
My shirt.
Loose, oversized, swallowing her frame, the fabric slipping just enough at the shoulder to bare the fragile curve of her collarbone. It wasn't supposed to matter. It was fabric, nothing more. But seeing her wrapped in something of mine—draped in it—set a fire in me I hadn't felt in years.
I dismissed the staff with a flick of my hand, my voice too tight to trust. The door clicked shut, and silence swallowed the room again.
I sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle her. My fingers twitched, aching to brush that stray strand of hair from her face. Instead, I curled them into fists.
Her breathing had steadied, no longer the ragged gasp that haunted me. Her lips parted slightly, lashes trembling as though she were dreaming. For a man like me, nightmares were familiar companions. But her face—so unguarded, so… soft—it was a knife straight to the heart.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, just watching. Watching the rise and fall of her chest, the way my shirt clung to her like it belonged to her more than it ever had to me.
It should've been hate I felt. Or at the very least indifference. She was the enemy. She had slipped through my grasp, defied me at every turn.
But instead, all I could think was this:
If the world tried to take her from me again, I would burn it down before I let it.