CHAPTER 35: HELPING HER

Alisha parted her lips to speak, but no sound came out.

The pain in her side still throbbed relentlessly, a deep, burning ache that refused to be ignored. She had barely made it home without collapsing. After being shot by one of the armed men who had somehow refused to die despite the bullets shot in his body, she had been immediately treated by Jace.

It worked. For a while.

But the moment she stepped out of her car, despite her careful movements, she felt the faint tug and shift of the bandage.

Jace had suggested she spend the night at her parents’ house so someone could watch her, but the risk was too high. If Mr. De Rossi was indeed the man behind the illegal arms trafficking—and her gut told her he was—Dante would be quick to notice her absence, and she could be his first suspect.

She’d been hoping to slip in quietly, tend to herself, and pretend nothing had happened.

But now... now that Dante had seen the blood staining her bandage, there was no escaping the questions that would come.

He didn’t even wait.

Striding toward her, his grip was sudden, his fingers curling around her wrist and pulling her toward him. His eyes, usually an unreadable shade of dark brown, now looked almost black, as though they were swallowing up the light.

"Who hurt you?" His voice was low, but the sharp edge in it made the question feel like a demand.

"You are!" she shot back, yanking her hand free. "Now can you let me go?!"

The flare of pain from moving too suddenly forced a grimace onto her face, but she refused to let him see weakness.

Dante’s eyes softened at once, the storm in them ebbing. His jaw unclenched, and for a moment, he simply stared at her, gaze dipping back to the bandage as if he still couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

"I had a little accident while coming back. It’s not a big deal. Go back to sleep," she said, brushing past him toward the kitchen. She opened the cabinets, her movements jerky, more from irritation than pain. "Where is the first aid box when you need it?" she muttered, more to herself than him, her voice tinged with aggravation.

She reached up to check a higher shelf, and that was when she felt it—the warmth of someone standing right behind her. The air shifted, and the faint scent of cedarwood and aftershave drifted into her senses. It was distracting. Maddeningly distracting.

Dante didn’t say anything at first. He simply reached past her, his tall frame making the motion effortless, and pulled out the small red first aid box from the top cabinet.

"Come with me," he said, already walking toward the living room.

Alisha glared at his back, tempted to argue, but the truth was she didn’t have the energy to fight him on this. With a quiet huff, she followed.

He set the box on the coffee table and began taking out the contents—antiseptic, cotton swabs, bandages—arranging them with meticulous precision.

"If you’re thinking of helping me apply the medicine, you don’t need to bother yourself," she said, her tone flat.

Dante didn’t even look up. His eyes were on her back now, where the dark patch of blood had bled through her clothes. "Applying the medicine will be difficult for you."

"I can," she insisted. "I just need to get the right medicine and—"

"You can’t even see it," he cut in smoothly. "You need me to help you apply it." He let out a slow breath. "Let me help you."

Alisha pressed her lips into a thin line. She hated that he was right.

Thankfully, the bullet had only grazed her skin, but the wound was still deep enough to sting with every movement. To tend to it herself, she’d have to twist her body at an awkward angle, which could easily tear it open again.

But having Dante touch her? She could only exhale sharply and give in.

"Just get it over with quickly," she muttered.

She eased down onto the soft cushion, biting her lip to keep from groaning at the pull in her side.

The sound of fabric tearing filled the quiet as Dante ripped open the back of her top to expose the wound. She flinched at the sudden exposure of cool air against raw skin.

Without a word, he poured antiseptic onto the cotton swab. The smell of alcohol burned her nose just before the sting hit her skin.

"Ah—!" she hissed, the pain forcing the curse out of her before she could stop it.

"Gentle, please," she managed, her voice strained.

"Who hurt you?" he asked again, his voice quieter this time but no less insistent. His gaze caught hers, locking her in place. For a moment, neither of them moved, and the silence between them was heavy with unspoken things.

"I told you. I had an accident while coming back," she said finally.

"What kind of accident?" His tone sharpened again. "It looks like you’ve been shot."

Alisha’s eyes narrowed in mock offense. "I didn’t know my husband was a low-key detective," she said, letting the sarcasm drip.

My husband.

The words hung in the air, almost tangible. She didn’t miss the flicker in his expression, the subtle shift as if he’d just realized she had addressed him that way for the first time. And he... liked it.

"Tell me the truth."

She hadn’t prepared for this. She had expected to walk in, patch herself up, and go to bed without running into him at all. Now she was scrambling for a story that wouldn’t make him suspicious—or at least not suspicious enough to dig deeper.

"I was almost robbed on the way here," she began, keeping her tone steady. "You know I don’t have a driver or a bodyguard, so I had to use my defense knife to fight them off. But they were too strong, so I ran away. They gave me this cut." She made sure not to look him in the eye as she spoke.

Dante studied her for a long moment, his gaze lingering on her face like he was trying to catch the slightest twitch of a lie.

If he believed her, he didn’t show it.

Instead, he shifted his focus back to her wound, pressing the cotton swab more gently this time. "I’ll get you a driver and a bodyguard so this doesn’t happen again."

Alisha almost rolled her eyes. Almost.

For a man who spent half his life looking like a cold marble statue, he sure had a strange way of showing concern when no one else was around to see it.

The silence between them changed. It wasn’t sharp or tense anymore. It felt... steady.

Just a husband tending to his wife’s injury.

"There. You’re all good to go," Dante said finally, securing the fresh bandage in place.

Alisha glanced down at his work, genuinely impressed despite herself. "You sure know what you’re doing. Have you gotten a lot of injuries before?"

For a brief second, his eyes flickered with something unreadable, and then a faint smile ghosted his lips. "No," he said simply, before rising from the couch. He didn’t explain the smile, and she didn’t ask.

"I’ll put this back in the kitchen," he added. "You should shower and rest. It’s already late."

She nodded once and moved toward the hallway, her steps slow but steady.

The moment Dante was in the kitchen, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen. Rico.

He answered with a low grunt. "What do you want now?"

"Our warehouse has been ambushed," Rico’s voice cut in.