Chapter 8: Rule Three

His fever broke after midnight.

I had not left the chair, and I woke when his hand closed around my wrist.

"Cara."

"You're awake."

"I said something." His voice was rough and clear. "Before. In the car."

"You said a lot of things."

"Did I say the last one?"

"Yes."

The lamp was on low and the house was quiet.

He did not let go of my wrist.

"Rule three," he said. "I broke it first."

"You didn't. I broke it in the car."

"Then we're even."

"We're not even," I said. "You're in a bed with a hole in you, and I'm sitting here."

"Then come here."

I should have said no.

For five years nobody had wanted me in a room unless I was carrying something.

I stood up and sat on the edge of the bed.

His good hand came up and cupped my jaw, and I turned my face into it.

His palm was warm and calloused, and my whole body leaned toward it.

"Tell me to stop," he said.

"Don't you dare."

I kissed him then, carefully at first and then not carefully at all.

He made a low sound against my mouth and his fingers slid into my hair and pulled the pins out one at a time.

"Your shoulder," I said.

"I have another one."

"Domenico."

"Be gentle with me," he said, and he smiled against my lips.

"I won't."

I pushed the blanket down.

He was bare to the waist, with the white bandage across his left shoulder.

I put my mouth on the skin below it, and he shuddered.

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