Chapter 4 - Blood and Stitches
The estate was a graveyard by morning.
The Falcone family had orchestrated the hit, attempting to decapitate Arthur’s leadership in one violent stroke.
They had failed spectacularly.
Clara remained in the panic room for six hours until the heavy door finally hissed open.
Arthur stood in the doorway.
He was covered in soot, and a deep laceration ran down his left bicep, soaking his shirt in blood.
He looked exhausted, completely drained by the slaughter.
Clara did not wait for an invitation.
She walked out of the bunker, grabbed his uninjured arm, and pulled him toward the medical wing.
“The doctors are busy with my men,” Arthur grunted, trying to pull away.
“Then I will do it,” Clara stated firmly.
She led him to his private penthouse bathroom, ignoring the protests of the guards in the hallway.
She forced him to sit on the edge of the marble bathtub.
She stripped his ruined shirt off, her hands surprisingly steady as she assessed the deep cut.
“You need stitches,” she told him.
“Then sew it,” Arthur challenged, his dark eyes locking onto hers.
Clara retrieved the medical kit, threaded the needle, and went to work.
Arthur did not flinch, though the pain had to be agonizing.
He watched her face, studying the fierce concentration in her eyes.
“You abandoned your post during the attack,” Clara said quietly, breaking the silence.
“My men know how to fight,” Arthur replied.
“They do not need me holding their hands.”
“You are their boss, Arthur.”
“They need you leading them.”
Arthur reached out with his good arm, grabbing her wrist and stopping her movements.
“I could not lead them if I was wondering whether you were bleeding out on a kitchen floor.”
Clara’s breath caught in her throat.
The air in the bathroom suddenly felt suffocatingly hot.
“I am just a maid,” she whispered desperately, trying to remind them both of the rules.
“You are the only thing in this world that makes me want to stay alive,” Arthur confessed.
The brutal honesty in his voice shattered her final defense.
He pulled her forward, his hand tangling in her hair as he crushed his mouth against hers.
It was not a gentle kiss.
It was a desperate, consuming collision of fear and adrenaline.
May you like
Clara kissed him back, dropping the medical supplies onto the marble floor.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, finally surrendering to the monster she had tried so hard to avoid.
