Chapter 7 - WRATH OF THE MONSTER
When I woke up, the world was sterile, white, and smelled of antiseptic. I was lying in a hospital bed, a web of tubes connecting me to monitors that beeped in a steady, reassuring rhythm.
I turned my head. Nico was sitting in a chair beside the bed. He looked like he had gone to war and crawled back through hell. His suit was rumpled and stained with dried blood—my blood. His knuckles were bruised and split open.
"You're awake," he breathed, standing up so fast the chair tipped over. He didn't bother picking it up. He hovered over me, his hand gently brushing the hair from my forehead.
"What happened?" my voice was a raspy croak.
"You took two bullets," he said, his jaw clenching. "One through the shoulder, one grazed your ribs. You've been in and out of surgery for two days."
"Elena?"
"She's unharmed. She hasn't stopped asking for you." He sat on the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands. When he looked back up, his eyes were bloodshot and burning with a dark, terrifying intensity. "They thought they could strike at me through her. And they almost took you."
"Who did it?"
"Lorenzo hired outside mercenaries," Nico said softly, though the malice in his voice was unmistakable. "He thought the chaos would allow him to seize control."
"What did you do, Nico?" I asked, seeing the darkness clinging to him.
He took my hand, lifting it to his lips and pressing a reverent kiss to my knuckles. "I did what I had to do. I unleashed hell on this city, Clara. Every man involved in the hit is dead. Their operations are ash. The men who betrayed me learned exactly who they were dealing with."
I knew I should be horrified. I knew the man holding my hand was a killer, a criminal, a monster to the rest of the world. But as he looked at me with absolute, undeniable love, all I felt was safe.
"Lorenzo?" I asked.
"He fled. He's hiding like a rat in a hole," Nico sneered. "My men are tearing Chicago apart brick by brick to find him. But I haven't left this room. I couldn't."
"You should have," I whispered, though I gripped his hand tighter. "I'm just a nurse."
"Don't," he commanded, his voice breaking. "Don't ever say that. You are the woman who bled for my child. You are the woman who owns my goddamn soul."
May you like
He leaned down, and finally, after months of agonizing tension, his lips claimed mine. It wasn't a gentle kiss; it was desperate, bruised, and filled with the terror of almost losing me. I kissed him back, ignoring the pain in my shoulder, pulling him closer into my orbit.
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