Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 65987 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65987 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Chapter Sixteen
Belle
I leaned into Dario's side as he steered me through the dim corridors of the eastern wing, his arm like a steel band around my waist that somehow felt more sheltering than confining. My legs still shook from everything that had happened, each step echoing faintly off the polished floors that seemed to stretch on forever in this massive place he called home. The air carried a faint scent of polished wood and something floral, probably from the gardens outside, but my mind barely registered it. Exhaustion clawed at me, mixed with the lingering terror that made my skin prickle even now, safe as I supposedly was. Dario didn't speak, just kept his pace steady, matching my unsteady gait without a hint of impatience. I was surprised he didn’t simply pick me up and carry me, but I was beginning to realize appearances were everything in this world. Leaning on him was OK. It showed my complete trust in him, but my strength to stand upright, both figuratively and literally. I’d taken a beating but I was still on my feet, a woman worthy to stand by Dario Luca’s side.
We reached the entrance to our adjoined suite, he pushed open the double doors with his free hand. He guided me straight through to the bathroom that gleamed under soft amber lights. Marble everywhere, from the floors to the counters, veined with gold that caught the light. A massive mirror dominated one wall, reflecting us back in harsh clarity. I looked like a ghost of myself, pale and smeared with dirt, while Dario loomed solid and unyielding beside me.
He released my waist gently, his hands moving to my shoulders as he turned me away from the mirror. "Let me see," he said, his voice low and controlled, but I caught the edge in it, sharp as a blade. I stood still as he stripped me bare and traced every bruise, every scrape, of my skin.
When he moved to the antiseptic, I couldn't hold back the hiss as it stung, fire racing along the raw skin. "Easy," he murmured, his voice dropping even lower, meant for my ears alone. "It'll pass. You're doing so well, Belle." The words wrapped around me like a blanket, chasing away some of the chill that had settled in my bones. He blew gently on the wet skin to ease the burn, his breath warm against my wrist, and I felt a different kind of heat stir inside me, unexpected and confusing amid the pain.
His gaze locked with mine, intense and unwavering, blue like storm-tossed waves that could pull me under. My breath caught in my throat, the air between us thickening with something heavy, the weight of what had happened and what it meant. In that moment, with his hands still lingering on my skin, I saw not just the powerful man who commanded empires, but something rawer, more vulnerable, mirroring the fear I'd felt and the relief of being here now.
With deliberate movements, Dario stripped off his own clothing before he took my hand, leading me toward the huge, open shower. He urged me to sit on a wide, padded bench while he adjusted the water. When steam began to curl up through the room, water falling in a hot cascade that fogged the air between us, Dario turned back to me. The sound of the water hitting the tiles echoed off the marble, a steady rhythm that drowned out the lingering echoes of gunfire in my mind. He looked at me with eyes that held a storm of emotions I couldn't fully read.
"Let's get you clean," he said softly.
Dario reached for a bottle of expensive soap, squeezing a generous amount onto a soft cloth. He started with my face, dabbing gently around the cut on my forehead, his touch so careful it nearly broke me. The cloth traveled down my neck, across my shoulders, tracing each bruise with reverent attention. He knelt before me, washing my legs, my feet, working upward with methodical tenderness. Through the steam billowing around us, his expression was one of focused devotion, as if cleansing me was a sacred duty.
"You're shaking," he murmured, looking up at me through the water streaming between us.
"Not from fear," I whispered, surprised to find it true. The trembling in my limbs had transformed into something else entirely, a fluttering awareness of his hands on my skin, of his naked body so close to mine.
His eyes darkened at my words, pupils expanding until the blue was merely a ring of storm-tossed ocean around black centers. The cloth traveled higher, across my thighs, and I gasped when he passed over a particularly tender bruise.
"Sorry," he murmured, pressing his lips to the purple mark in a kiss so gentle it made my heart squeeze painfully in my chest.