Alessio’s cell starts to ring once again, and this time, it’s Romero calling him.
The bedsheets rustle as a low guttural moan fills the air. I turn and see that Alessio’s awake and is watching me. “God, turn that fucking thing off,” he growls.
I roll my eyes. It seems as though he’s better.
“That is your brother calling you. Again,” I reply softly.
Our gazes collide, and my cheeks heat as he focuses those deep amber eyes on me. They look as though they're seeing through me. It’s unnerving. I hate being made to feel as thoughI’m being judged, and that’s exactly what Alessio is doing right now.
“Answer it then,” he snaps.
My temper flares. Hell fucking no.
“I’m not your maid, and I’m certainly not a dog. Don’t bark commands at me. You’re well enough to growl, you’re well enough to answer the damn phone and leave.”
Instantly, his dark gaze changes, and he begins to chuckle, but then winces in pain.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t do that,” I say dryly. “You’ve been shot, not to mention stabbed. You’re lucky to be alive.”
He looks unfazed by my words. “It’s not the first time. I doubt it’ll be the last.”
“Obviously,” I snap, annoyed that he’s getting to me. Usually, I’m not this bitchy, but he gets to me in a way no one has before.
“Listen, little girl, if I could answer it, I would. But as you can see, I'm a little tied up.”
I roll my eyes. God, he is an ass. Why are men such pigs?
I get to my feet, reach for the cell, and throw it onto the bed, just far enough away from him that he’ll have to move. I walk out of the room without looking back. If he wants to be an asshole, then he can do shit for himself.
I busy myself in the kitchen, cooking bacon, eggs, and sausages. Trying my hardest to take my mind off the man in the bedroom. I'm grateful there's space between us, because not only is he hot and gorgeous, but he's also a jerk.
I can't believe I let him get to me. Something that never happens. Usually, I'm very laid back and controlled. It takes a certain situation to get me fired up. But Alessio managed to get to me with just a smirk and a few words.
“Something smells nice,” I hear from behind me.
I jump around to face him, releasing a squeal. My heart beats a mile a minute.
“God, you scared me,” I say as I press a hand to my chest. “Someone really needs to put a bell on you. How did you sneak up on me like that?”
I didn't hear him end his call, let alone walk around my house. God, he has me so out of sorts that I’m not even paying attention to things around me. I was so focused on cooking and deep in thought that I was distracted.
I see he's standing before me, his white shirt stained with blood. How did he go from lying in bed, looking like he's at death's door, to standing in front of me, looking like he’s about to walk on the set of a GQ shoot?
“What are you cooking?” he questions, his gaze firmly on me.
“Food,” I reply sarcastically.
My words are met with a darkened look, and his eyes narrow. Why the hell do I feel as though he’s reprimanding me without saying a bloody word?
“I understand that you need time to heal, but you're able to walk around now. I think it's best if you just leave.”
The dark look disappears, but instead, a smug smile forms on his lips. Why the hell does that make butterflies hit my stomach? Why do I react this way to him?
“You're cute, babe,” he says.
My blood boils.
“It’s not up for debate, but I ain’t leaving yet. You’re cooking and I’m hungry. Besides, we need to talk.”