The Don Chased His Donna Back

The door to the hospital room was locked from the inside.

Dante shoved me into a chair and roughly tore open the sleeve of my white coat.

There was a shallow cut on my arm—I'd scraped it when I fell at the bar earlier.

Not deep. Didn't hurt.

But Dante's face looked even worse than before he saw the wound.

He dug through the first aid kit and pulled out iodine and cotton swabs, his movements fast and rough.

The swab pressed against the cut and I sucked in a breath.

"Good. It should hurt," he said through gritted teeth.

"Maybe the pain will teach you to think next time."

I watched him bent over my arm, saying nothing.

His fingers were long, the knuckles sharply defined, the iodine-soaked swab tracing across my skin inch by inch.

His touch was so gentle it didn't match his tone at all.

When he finished, he tossed the swab aside and leaned against the cabinet.

"The leg wound on Dominic—that was you?"

"Yes."

"Where exactly?"

"Inner thigh. Three centimeters from the femoral artery."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Nice aim. Three centimeters closer and he'd have been done for."

"I'm a doctor. I know exactly what I'm doing."

He stared at me for two seconds, then suddenly laughed.

Not a happy laugh.

It was the kind of laugh where the corners of his mouth curved up but his eyes were full of ice—bitter, helpless, furious all at once.

"Ivy Ashford, you really are ruthless."

"I look forward to watching you two tear each other apart."