The room was too bright for someone who had almost bled out.
White light from the chandelier washed over the space, gleaming off polished marble floors and expensive black-paneled walls. The place didn't look like a sick room, it looked like a luxury suite in a billionaire's penthouse. But the smell of iron and antiseptic ruined any chance of forgetting what had happened tonight.
On the king-sized bed near the center of the room, Luca lay unconscious. His clothes had been removed and replaced, revealing layers of bandages wrapped around his torso and thigh. Blood still seeped through faintly, a shade too red to be comfortable.
Derek was the one working on him, sleeves rolled up, hands gloved, face set in an annoyed grimace. Derek was always annoyed. It was his pretending facial expression, like someone who had been dragged out of comfort one too many times and simply wanted the world to acknowledge his suffering.
