Dante sat on the sofa, watching Natalie tend to his wound. The woman was crouched on the floor with a serious face. She was holding tweezers and trying to pull out a small shard of ceramic plate that was deeply embedded in the sole of his foot.

 

“Tell me if it hurts,” Natalie said, without looking at Dante. She winced at the wound on his foot.

 

“Are you afraid?” Dante asked, but Natalie didn’t answer because she was too focused on her activities.

 

Dante secretly let out a long sigh. In all those years, no woman had ever handled his wounds. In fact, he had never let a woman see...