And when I’m finally, finally alone, I bury my face in my hands and let it out.
Just for an hour. One single, solitary fucking hour to let my guard down before I have to build it back up again.
I don’t know how long it is before the knock comes at my door.
Three hard, solid knocks. Familiar knocks.
And the relief threatens to cut me off at the knees as I scramble to my feet, my hands fighting to get the locks undone before he’s pushing the door open, his hands on my face.
“I’m here,” he says urgently, searching my face. “You’re okay. Tell me what happened, baby.”
The words spill out in shaking judders. His hands rub up and down my arms, flexing as I stumble towards the moment that Salvatore Asante thought he could put his hands on me and get away with it.
But I can’t say it.
Dom studies my face. “Okay,” he whispers. “It’s okay, Cat. You don’t have to.”
Instead, he carefully wraps his arms around me, and I curl myself into him, burying my face in his neck and taking deep, heaving breaths like his scent might chase away the cold inside my chest.
When the door knocks, I can’t stop the flinch. Dom looks down at me, his brows dipping before he looks to the door. “It’s Dante. He won’t come in unless you want him to.”
“No.” My throat aches. “I need to know what happened after I left. Let him in. Just… give me a minute.”
When I glance in the mirror, smeared make-up greets me, and I reach for my remover. It comes off in thick, dark smudgesagainst the cotton pads, until my reflection stares back at me, pale and wan. I progress from my make-up to my teeth, scrubbing them twice.
I still don’t feel clean.
So I switch the shower on, yanking off the blazer and pulling the hem of my fitted black shirt out of my waistband, peeling it off along with my bra. But when my hand moves to the zip at the side of my skirt, I pause.
“Caterina.”
I whirl, hands reaching up to cover my stomach and breasts at the low voice. “FuckingChrist, Dante. Breathe louder.”
The tone feels normal, but his expression… I’ve never seen it before.
Slowly, he moves towards me. “Are you alright?”
I search his face.
“No,” I say finally. “But I will be. It could have been worse.”
Anger flashes across his face, darkening his eyes. “It shouldn’t have happened at all.”
No. it shouldn’t.
I startle when Dante drops down to one knee. His hand moves to my zip. “Want this off?”
When I nod, he carefully unzips me. The skirt slips over my hips, pooling around my ankles.
Then he carefully nudges my leg open, his eyes checking my face, searching for approval before he looks down.
His eyes close, his breathing ragged. “I should have killed him.”
I turn my leg. The skin is already mottled with the beginnings of what promises to be some nasty bruising, and several small but deep cuts, courtesy of his nails, leave little trails of blood smeared across my skin.
“He won’t forget in a hurry,” I say quietly. He’ll never have the same movement in that hand again, and I’m glad for it.
Dante rests his forehead against my leg. “Shower,” he says gruffly. “Take your time. Rossi is getting the first aid kit.”
