was so intense that Gabriella still felt it when she looked away. She tried to ignore him and focus on his injury, flushing the wound and sterilizing it. His body tensed, hands gripping the counter so tightly she was surprised he didn't break off a piece of the cheap plaster.
He'd applied enough pressure to stop most of the bleeding, so at least he wouldn't bleed to death in her bathroom. Thank goodness. After Gabriella was sure she had it clean, she used tape to close the wound, gluing the edges, before covering it with a large bandage.
Standing up again, she met his gaze. He was still staring at her. After an awkward moment, where Gabriella swore the temperature rose a hundred degrees, he lowered his head and looked down at her handiwork.
"Give it to me straight," he said. "Am I going to live?"
"Most likely," she said. "You're not very good at this dying thing, you know."
"I'll have to try harder next time."
Gabriella tore her gloves off and tossed them in the trashcan as Dante let his bloody shirt drop, covering his chest.
"You should wash up," she suggested. "I'm sure I've got a shirt you can change into around here somewhere."
She didn't give him a chance to argue, jetting out of the bathroom and closing the door, shutting him in there alone. Nervously, she made her way into her bedroom, cringing at the mess. Clothes were flung all over the place, clutter piled up on the dresser and bedside stands. Gabriella waded through it, heading to her closet. She found a Mets shirt hanging in the back and yanked it off the hanger, a startled scream escaping when she swung around.
Dante stood in the doorway, watching.
He'd made a half-assed attempted at cleaning himself up, at least washing the blood from his hands.
"Uh, here, this should fit you," she mumbled, holding the shirt out to him, but he made no attempt to come any closer, not crossing the threshold into her bedroom.
Brow furrowing, she approached him. Once it was within his reach, he took the shirt she offered. He was even paler now than when he'd shown up. Sweat formed along his brow. Instinctively, Gabriella grabbed his wrist, checking for his pulse, counting the faint beats. He tolerated it, again staring at her, not attempting to pull away.
"You sure you don't want to lay down?" she asked, nodding her head over to the bed.
Dante waited until she let go of him to answer. "If I ever find myself in your bed, Gabriella, it'll be under entirely different circumstances."
There went the temperature rising again.
Her cheeks flushed as Dante observed the shirt, cringing like it hurt him to look at it. "Didn't take you for a Mets fan."
"What did you take me for?"
"Someone with class."
He draped the shirt over his shoulder before walking into the living room. Gabriella followed, watching as he staggered a few steps, swaying. Her heart nearly stalled when his knees buckled. Ten seconds and he was going to slam right into the floor.
Darting forward, she grabbed him before he fell. Oh crap, he's heavy. She managed to get him to her couch, dropping him on it. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes, as he ran his hands down his face, the softest whispered apology escaping his lips. "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize," she said, sitting down on the coffee table in front of the couch, her knees pressing against his. "You lost blood, so it's not surprising if you're feeling weak. Besides, no offense, but you look like you could use some beauty sleep."
He peeked an eye open. "You calling me ugly?"
"Maybe."
Absolutely not. She could think of a few words to describe him—reckless, fearless, most definitely cocky—but ugly didn't come close to registering on that chart. Even looking like Casper the Less-than-Friendly Ghost, there was something captivating about him, something charming in his smile and kind in his eyes. She couldn't quite explain it, because he was far from being her type. She'd always dated architects and athletes, not the kind of guys who got stabbed on Friday nights.
She'd purposely avoided dating those guys.
She dwelled on that as he leaned forward, moving around enough to finally tear his bloody shirt off. He dropped it in his lap and exchanged it for the one she'd given him. Her gaze flickered to his bare chest when he pulled the clean one on. It was instinctual, a reaction to having a half-naked man in her living room.