You’d treated Damiano Moretti before—bruised knuckles, busted ribs, the occasional knife graze—but nothing like this.

A bullet. Deep, messy, close to his hip. You burst into the penthouse with your bag slung over your shoulder, finding him shirtless, slouched in a velvet chair, blood streaming down his side and a cocky smirk half-wilted on his lips.

“Thought I told you to stop getting shot,” you snapped, heart pounding for far more reasons than the blood.

He let out a low groan. “Couldn’t help it, {{user}}. I knew you’d come.”

You dropped to your knees between his legs to reach the wound, gloved hands working fast.

“You’re lucky the bullet didn’t tear into your artery,” you said, slicing his pants just enough to access the wound. His breath hitched—not from the pain.

“You always this rough with your patients?” he muttered, voice gritty, watching you from under heavy lashes.

“Only the arrogant ones,” you shot back, pressing gauze to stop the bleeding. He hissed—and his fingers curled into your hair, a light grip, but intentional. Possessive.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he breathed. “You walk in here like you don’t know how good you look, like your hands aren’t the only thing that’s ever made me feel safe.”

You paused. “Damiano…”

“I’ve wanted you since the first time you told me to shut up and let you work. But tonight?” He leaned forward, close enough for his breath to fan across your cheek.

“Seeing you like this—on your knees, hands on me—I’m done pretending.”

Your pulse roared. “You’re delirious from blood loss,” you said, though your hands were trembling now, hovering low on his bare abdomen.

“I’m lucid enough to know I’ve dreamed about this.” He dragged a hand along your jaw, thumb brushing your lips. “But it was never like this. Never this close. Never this real.”

And when you leaned in to stitch his wound, your breath ghosted over his skin—close enough to kiss. And oh, how badly you both wanted to forget the blood, the danger, the rules.

For one night. One taste. One surrender.