“This what you needed,Cuore mio? You needed me to touch you? To make you feel good?” Enzo murmurs, speaking low, directly into my ear.
I can’t speak, just nod as pressure builds.
His thumb circles my clit with the exact right amount of pressure, while his fingers curl inside me, hitting that perfect spot.
My body trembles in his arms as my orgasm takes over until I sag against him, spent and sated.
We don’t speak again, not until he’s helped me out of the bath and tucked me back into bed—he’s so protective, not letting me overdo it. I’m not sure if I love it or hate it.
It feels as though all he’s done since I found him again is look after me. Forever my comfort, my safety.
Exhaustion pulls at me, and I let it, succumbing to the embrace of darkness. My dreams, thankfully, are filled with Enzo, and our childhood.
30
Breathe Through The Pain
I found one of your t-shirts in my closet today. If I breathe deep enough, I swear it still smells like you. —Izzy
Izzy
“Comefindmewhenyou’re done,” Enzo murmurs, kissing me softly before pulling away. He slips out of the office, shutting the door behind him.
It’s my first session with Dr. Morgan—the therapist he arranged. I fought him on it at first, but… I’m glad he won.
Thejoin meetingbutton glares at me, mocking me. I click it.
A warm smile fills my screen. Sleek brown hair brushes just pasther shoulders, framing honey-colored eyes that feel immediately kind.
“Hi,” she says. “You must be Izzy.”
“Hi. Yeah, that’s me.”
“I’m Dr. Morgan. Enzo didn’t give me many—actually, any—details about why you’re here. I’ll run through how my sessions usually work, and then you can tell me what you’re dealing with. Sound good?”
I nod, already feeling more at ease.
She explains talking therapy, what her patients often gain.
“Finally, I usually say not to disclose crimes, especially anything you plan in the future, because legally I’d be obligated to report if I thought you were a danger to yourself or others…” She pauses, smiling faintly. “But this is completely off the record, so…” She shrugs.
I like her.
“How about we start with what brought you here?” she asks gently, raising a brow but giving me time to gather my words.
I exhale hard. “I guess I should start at the beginning.”
“Wherever you’re comfortable.”
“I married my husband to get intel. I can’t give you details—that part’s not important here. What matters is that on our wedding night, he and his friends raped me until I was almost dead.”
She doesn’t interrupt. She knows I’m not finished.
“I was doing better. Really. But then two of them caught me while I tried to run. They raped me again.” My voice hardens. “I don’t feel sad. I’m angry. I want to kill them—like I killed the other two.”
The silence stretches a beat, deliberate, as if she’s waiting to see if there’s more.
“Okay,” she says at last. “First of all—thank you for trusting me with something so painful. What you went through was traumatic, and the anger you feel is completely valid. Obviously, I don’t recommend murder as a form of therapy. But wecanwork on how you process that anger and help you find a way forward.”
