Blood and Roses

The Wound

Three months into my marriage, I learned that fear had a sound.

It wasn't always a scream.

Sometimes it was the sudden slam of a front door.

Sometimes it was hurried footsteps against marble floors.

Sometimes it was a man's voice dropping low enough that you couldn't make out the words.

And sometimes—

it was the sound of someone trying very hard not to groan in pain.

I was sitting in the library when I heard the front door open.

I glanced at the clock.

11:47 p.m.

Nico was home.

That shouldn't have surprised me.

It was his house.

His schedule was unpredictable.

He came and went whenever he pleased, sometimes disappearing for hours without explanation and returning long after midnight.

I'd stopped waiting for him a long time ago.

Still, something about tonight felt different.

I closed my book.

Voices drifted down the hallway.

Low.

Urgent.

Male.

I couldn't make out what they were saying.

I stood slowly.

Maybe it was nothing.

It usually was.

I had learned that lesson quickly after marrying Nico.

There was always something happening around him.

A meeting.

A problem.

A shipment.

A disagreement.

A man who had forgotten who he was dealing with.

The Vassallo world never slept.

Neither did its problems.

I stepped out of the library.

The hallway was empty.

For a moment, I wondered if I'd imagined the voices.

Then I heard footsteps.

Heavy ones.

Coming toward me.

I froze.

Two men appeared around the corner.

And between them was Nico.

My heart stopped.

His black suit was torn at the side, and his white shirt was stained a deep, ugly red.

Blood.

Too much blood.

One of the men had an arm around his waist, supporting him.

Nico's face was pale.

His jaw was clenched so tightly that I could see the muscle ticking.

He looked furious.

Not afraid.

Never afraid.

But hurt.

Very hurt.

"What happened?"

The question left my mouth before I could stop it.

Both men looked at me.

Nico's dark eyes found mine.

"Nothing."

I stared at him.

"Nothing?"

He looked down at himself.

Then back at me.

"I'll live."

"That wasn't my question."

One of the men shifted uncomfortably.

"He was shot."

Nico's eyes snapped toward him.

The man immediately looked away.

I felt my stomach twist.

"Shot?"

"It's a graze," Nico said.

"You were shot."

"I've been shot before."

That wasn't reassuring.

"Where?"

"Vivian."

His voice carried a warning.

I knew that voice.

I'd heard him use it with men who were twice my age.

Men who were armed.

Men who feared him.

It was the voice that meant stop asking questions.

Normally, I would have.

Normally, I'd lower my eyes and walk away.

That was what I had always done.

But seeing blood soaking through his shirt made something inside me snap.

"Where are you hurt?"

He stared at me.

"My side."

"Sit down."

His eyebrows lifted.

"What?"

"Sit."

The two men exchanged a glance.

I ignored them.

Nico looked at me as though I had suddenly started speaking another language.

I pointed toward the nearest chair.

"You're bleeding."

"I'm aware."

"Then sit."

For several seconds, neither of us moved.

Then, surprisingly, Nico sat.

I blinked.

Apparently, I had more authority than I realized.

Or maybe he was simply too tired to argue.

"Get the first-aid kit," I told one of the men.

He nodded and disappeared.

Nico leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes briefly.

I stood in front of him.

"Who did this?"

His eyes opened.

"Not tonight."

"Nico."

"Vivian."

There was something in his tone that told me the conversation was over.

I nodded.

"Fine."

The man returned with the first-aid kit.

I took it from him.

"You two can go."

Nico looked at me.

"Vivian—"

"I can handle it."

"You don't know how bad it is."

"I can see that you're alive."

His mouth twitched.

Was that almost a smile?

I wasn't sure.

The men looked at Nico.

He gave them a small nod.

They left.

The moment the door closed behind them, the room became strangely quiet.

Just me.

Just him.

Just the smell of blood between us.

I crouched in front of him.

"Take off your jacket."

He stared at me.

"Excuse me?"

"Your jacket."

"I know what you said."

"Then take it off."

Something almost amused flickered across his face.

"You've become demanding."

I looked at the blood on his shirt.

"You're injured."

"And?"

"And you're annoying."

He actually laughed.

It was quiet.

Brief.

But real.

I hadn't heard that sound directed at me in months.

He removed his jacket.

I took it from him and placed it over the back of the chair.

Then I looked at his shirt.

"You're going to have to open that."

His expression changed.

"Vivian."

"What?"

"I can do this myself."

"I know."

"Then why are you still here?"

I looked at him.

Because you're hurt.

Because I love you.

Because even after everything, I still couldn't stand the thought of something happening to you.

Instead, I said the only thing I could.

"Because I'm your wife."

Something shifted in his expression.

His eyes stayed on mine.

Then he slowly began unbuttoning his shirt.

I looked away.

Not because I hadn't seen a man's chest before.

I hadn't.

But because this was Nico.

The man I'd spent half my life trying not to stare at.

I focused very carefully on the first-aid kit.

"Done," he said.

I looked back.

His shirt hung open.

I swallowed.

He was...

I stopped that thought immediately.

This was not the time.

There was a wound near his side, just beneath his ribs.

The bullet had grazed him.

It was deep enough to bleed heavily but, thankfully, didn't appear to have entered.

I exhaled.

"It's not as bad as I thought."

"I told you."

"You also said it was nothing."

"It isn't."

"You're impossible."

"So I've been told."

I cleaned the wound.

Nico flinched.

"Sorry."

"I'm fine."

"You don't have to pretend with me."

He looked down at me.

"I don't pretend."

I raised an eyebrow.

"That's funny."

His gaze sharpened.

"Why?"

"Because you spent the entire evening pretending you're not bleeding to death."

"I wasn't bleeding to death."

"That's not the point."

I pressed the gauze gently against his side.

He inhaled sharply.

I immediately pulled back.

"Sorry."

His eyes remained on my face.

"You aren't afraid."

I paused.

"What?"

"You haven't looked away."

I glanced at the wound.

Then at him.

"I am afraid."

"You don't look it."

"I'm very good at hiding things."

The words came out before I could stop them.

Nico went still.

Something changed in his face.

His gaze remained fixed on mine.

For the first time, I wondered if he understood what I meant.

Not just tonight.

Not just about blood.

I had spent my entire life hiding things.

Fear.

Pain.

Loneliness.

Feelings.

Especially feelings.

He looked away first.

"I know."

Two words.

Quiet.

Almost gentle.

My fingers tightened around the gauze.

I wasn't sure what to say.

So I continued cleaning the wound.

The silence between us wasn't uncomfortable.

It was simply strange.

I'd spent three months living in the same house as this man without truly speaking to him.

We had become experts at existing around each other.

He came home.

I went upstairs.

He ate.

I read.

He brought women home.

I pretended not to notice.

We lived separate lives exactly as he'd promised.

But tonight, sitting beside him while blood stained my hands, something felt different.

Maybe it was because he was vulnerable.

Maybe because he was allowing me to help.

Maybe because I had never been this close to him before.

"Who shot you?" I asked quietly.

He looked at me.

"Someone who won't do it again."

I nodded.

That was probably all the answer I was going to get.

I reached for the bandage.

"Lift your arm."

He did.

I wrapped the bandage around his waist carefully.

My fingers brushed his skin.

He went still.

So did I.

For one second, neither of us moved.

Then his hand closed around my wrist.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

His fingers were warm.

Strong.

His eyes dropped to where he was holding me.

Then returned to my face.

"Why?"

I frowned.

"Why what?"

"Why are you doing this?"

I stared at him.

The real answer sat dangerously close to my lips.

Because I love you.

I'd wanted to say it for years.

I'd imagined saying it countless times.

But now, with his hand around my wrist and his brown eyes searching mine, I realized I couldn't.

Not like this.

Not when he had made it clear that he didn't love me.

So I gave him the simplest answer.

"Because you're hurt."

His fingers loosened.

Then he released me.

For a moment, he didn't say anything.

"Thank you."

I smiled faintly.

"You're welcome."

I packed away the medical supplies.

Then I stood.

"You should rest."

"I'm not tired."

"You were shot."

"I noticed."

"You're also incredibly stubborn."

"So are you."

I looked at him.

"Maybe."

His lips curved slightly.

There it was again.

That almost-smile.

I picked up the first-aid kit.

Then turned toward the hallway.

"Vivian."

I stopped.

I looked over my shoulder.

He was still sitting there, his shirt open, his eyes fixed on me.

"Yes?"

His gaze lingered on my face.

"Try not to worry."

I almost laughed.

"You came home bleeding."

"I'll be fine."

"You always say that."

"Because it's usually true."

I shook my head.

"Try not to get shot again."

For the first time, his smile appeared fully.

Small.

Brief.

But undeniably real.

"That's an order?"

I shrugged.

"Maybe."

I walked away before he could see the smile tugging at my own lips.

I made it halfway down the hallway before stopping.

My heart was beating too fast.

I pressed my hand against it.

This was dangerous.

Not because Nico was dangerous.

He was.

But that wasn't the danger I was talking about.

The danger was hope.

A single smile.

A single moment of softness.

A quiet thank-you.

That was all it took to make the foolish girl inside me wonder if maybe...

just maybe...

there was something more beneath all that distance.

I shook my head.

No.

I couldn't do this again.

I had spent years turning small gestures into things they weren't.

I wouldn't make the same mistake twice.

Behind me, I heard Nico shift in his chair.

He didn't call me back.

He didn't follow.

But for the first time since our marriage began, I knew he was watching me leave.

And for the first time since he had agreed to marry Vivian Callahan, Nico Vassallo found himself thinking about his wife.

Not as Adrian's little sister.

Not as the quiet girl he'd known for years.

Not as the woman who had been handed to him as part of an alliance.

His wife.

Vivian.

He couldn't explain why tonight felt different.

He only knew that when she had knelt in front of him, her hands trembling slightly as she cleaned his wound, she hadn't looked at him like the feared Vassallo heir.

She had looked at him like he was simply a man who was hurt.

And somehow, that bothered him more than the bullet.

Because for the first time, Nico was beginning to realize something uncomfortable.

Maybe he didn't know his wife nearly as well as he thought he did.