The room held a chill, the scent of antiseptics and such, and against it all, the warmth and smell that Brando emitted naturally. He sat up in bed, back turned toward us as we entered, staring out at the snow. The reflection staring back at me through the window told me he wasn’t pleased.
“What’s new,” I muttered under my breath.
I slid the gloves off, handing them back to Romeo. I kept the cape on to ward off the cold. The fireplace blazed with heat, but it failed to produce enough warmth to keep me comfortable. I was the only one who seemed to mind, though, so perhaps it was just me.
Brando stared at me for a moment before he told Romeo and Vincenzo to go. Once the door closed behind them, he shifted off the bed, nodding toward the bathroom. He was all healed, every day working to gain his strength back. He had been in such top shape that healing came faster than the doctors predicted. Uncle Tito liked to say,I told them so!
I stared at the open space he had just walked through. Whatever was going on with him had come to a head. The tension that rolled off his shoulders almost made me feel seasick.
The shower started to run. Steam puffed out in humid clouds and met the cold air, disappearing at once. Squaring my shoulders, I braced myself for whatever was weighing on his mind.
He was already naked when I met him in the bathroom. He slid a hand through his hair, slicking it down. “Take off your—” He nodded to my cloak.
I did, letting it fall to the floor. Slowly, he looked me over from head to toe. He lifted one brow—take off the rest, his silence demanded. I undressed as slowly as his eyes had appraised me, my heart thundering in my chest.
“Brando—”
He shook his head, a signal that he didn’t want to discuss anything.
“We need to talk,” I blurted, before he could stop me again.
He shook his head again, despite my outburst. “Later.”
Later. My stomach fluttered with uncertain butterflies. His eyes were warm and soft, yet they held a sharp edge that meant he was serious about what he was going to do or say.
I reached out a trembling hand, setting it against his chest, cold to hot.
“Get in,” he nodded toward the shower.
Almost scalding hot, the water burned against my chilled skin. The tremble ran deeper than flesh, and no matter how hot the water was, it refused to cease.
He stepped in behind me and I stepped to the side, sharing the spray with him. But he didn’t seem concerned with the water. He gazed at me, intense and all consuming.
“Tell me what’s on your mind,mio marito,” I whispered, reaching out to touch him again.
He took a step back, shaking his head. He took a sponge from the shelf in the shower, soaping it up. He had me turn around so he could wash my back, his strokes gentle.
I couldn’t quite place his feelings. Comforted that we were together like this, for the first time in a long time? There was something else though. The feeling brought back the day he had surrendered to Giovi, and in more ways than one.
My forehead rested against the shower wall, warm droplets rushing down the turquoise tiles and past my head, dripping from my nose to the swirling vortex below.
“Tell me,” I said, almost breathless, closing my eyes tight. “Tell me that you’re not going to send me away.”
“Tell me,” he repeated. “Tell me that he didn’t hurt you.”
I grew rigid, not truly understanding what he had meant but feeling the red hate when he had said it. “No. He tried to scare me a lot, to get me to cooperate.”
“That’s not what I meant, Scarlett.” He flung the sponge at the mirror opposite us. It hit with asplat!and landed with a wetplop!Bottles lined the shelves, some of them glass, but I knew he’d chosen something that wouldn’t make a loud noise—not to frighten me? That had never stopped him before.
I turned to him abruptly, looking up into his eyes—solid, unwavering, full of hurt that I couldn’t heal. “Thentell mewhat you meandammit!” I screamed. My voice echoed, the air holding nothing but the rainfall of water afterward.
We stared at each other for an unknown amount of time, droplets from the tips of his hair falling onto my breasts. I stifled the urge to smack him silly and then tempt him to kiss me until neither of us could breathe.
Finally, his head fell forward a little and his eyes drifted to the side. “Enzo,” he said, and the name was hard, full of hate.
“Enzo?” He heard the question in my voice, because he met my eye again. “What about him?”
“What he did to you,” he said, his voice soft.
