She doesn’t look looked after. If he’d touched her, she would have carved out his eyes. She’s a fighter. A survivor. And I know Amadeo. He wouldn’t have touched her, not given what just happened. But there’s something about her that neither my brother nor I expected. She’s under his skin—mine too—and pushing our buttons when I don’t even think she means to.

Vittoria blinks, then shakes her head to clear whatever thought lingers there. My brother, I guess.

“He deserved to die,” she mutters.

I shake my head. “Not that. I mean in there. With Amadeo. What happened?”

She doesn’t answer. I move toward her, taking the towel and wrapping it around her shoulders. Her wrists are still bound by the handcuffs. I dry her, squeezing the water from her hair first, then drying her shoulders, her back and arms, her chest, stomach, legs. The blood is gone. Washed away. If only it were that simple.

She stands still as I clean her, eyes never moving from my own. She doesn’t answer me. And all I can think is that this girl, this woman, is damaged.

“I’m tired. I want to sleep,” she says.

“What happened with my brother?”

“Nothing.”

I grit my teeth. “Dandelion.”

“Maybe you should ask him.” She takes a step away from me, but I catch her arm and draw her back.

“I’m asking you.”

Her expression changes, that blankness giving way to something else, something that makes her appear younger than she is. Her forehead creases. There’s that confusion again.

“He kissed me.”

I guess I’m not expecting that. A kiss. I don’t know why this bothers me, but as I watch the line form between her eyebrows, I know she’s bothered too. I wonder if maybe we’re under her skin too.

With the towel at her back, I lift her. She doesn’t resist as I carry her to the bed and lay her down. From my pocket, I take out the key to the cuffs and unlock them. Slipping them off, I secure one around a rung of the headboard. We may need it later.

She looks at it, then at me.

I take the towel out from under her. My gaze sweeps over her small breasts, the taut nipples, and her slender body with its long, lean legs and arms. All that milky skin is still beautiful, even with all the bandages, the cuts, and the bruises. I want to touch her. Touch every inch of her. But I would only dirty her.

On the finger of her left hand is the sparkling diamond ring. I take that hand and wipe away a smear of red on the polished, perfect stone.