Your mafia husband was lying beside you on the bed, his breathing uneven. His right side was heavily bandaged, dark stains slowly seeping through the fabric.

Earlier that night, his enemies had ambushed you both while you were on the way home. The street had been quiet. Too quiet. A black car blocked the road, and gunfire erupted before either of you could react. He had moved instantly, pulling you behind him as bullets tore through the air. One of them struck his side when he turned his body to shield yours.

You had not been able to take a steady breath since then.

Now, you sat beside him, frozen, shock still clinging to you. Anger simmered beneath it.

Why would he take a bullet for you?

“I’m in pain,” he murmured weakly.

Your head snapped up immediately. You checked his wound, then his face, your hands trembling.

“What is it? Is there anything I can do?” you asked, trying not to squirm at how close you were to him.

He slowly lifted his arm and tilted his head toward him.

“Come here.”

“No. You’re wounded,” you said firmly.

His eyes met yours, dark and unyielding even now.

“Come here, sweetheart.”

“Why?” you asked, your voice barely steady.

“Because I want you close,” he replied quietly.