I admitted to this small peace offering. Because the layers were causing the ache in my heart to swell and come precariously close to overflowing from my eyes in the form of tears.
I repeated what I’d said to him earlier, reminding him of my vows and why he was in my bed. “I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I, Scarlett Rose Fausti, will love and honor you all the days of my life, Brando Piero Fausti.”
“He’s not me,” he snapped, a fierceness to his tone that made me wonder if he was not only at battle with me, but with himself too.
He started to move again, in a way that told me we were going to do this until I completely broke from sheer exhaustion. He was going to bring me to the brink and then pull me back, over and over, until he gave me what I wanted and then started over again.
He had only done this to me once before, when I’d spoken a word to him that I had never said before.No.Afraid that he'd hurt thebaby he didn't know I carried. Mia.
He was doing it again. Drawing out the battle between our bodies, keeping the intensity at an impossible level but making the ache linger until it hit the bloodstream.
An insane amount of tortureanda fathomless amount of pleasure.
He was controlled in battle—wild but always in control—and with us too.
He could manipulate all the rules. The master of my body and all that came with it.
Hours could have passed, as we had no regard for time, but once we both lay next to each other, soaking wet and panting, I whispered hoarsely, “You left them on.” Tears streaked down my cheeks from the heartbreak and the emotional overwhelm that came with.
“You spoke the words and made yourself clear. This man has no right to a woman who doesn’t belong to him.”
“You still touched me,” I said. “You stillfuckedme. So only my body belongs to you? Nothing more?”
“That’s what it means to be an easy lay, Scarlett. To fuck. You get the physical, nothing more.”
He turned his back, giving me that damn tattoo.
It was just a pair of underwear, I tried to sell myself. Nothing more. Nothing less.
I wanted to buy that lie—use every last penny of common sense I had, but deep down, I knew it symbolized more.
“I—” The tears became heavier as they ran down my cheeks, but my breath stayed even. How to even say this? “I miss my husband.”
“What if he’s dead?”
It took a moment for the shock to fade so the words could come.
“Then I’m dead too,” I whispered. “Don't ask me to leave you and turn back. Wherever you go, I will go; wherever you live, I will live.”
I traced the shape of the tattoo with a slow-moving fingertip. His skin shivered, but he made no move to stop me. Slipping out of the underwear, I threw them toward the fire, hoping they caught and turned to ashes.
Kissing his neck, I clung to him, my front pressed to his back. “He’s not,” I murmured in his ear in Italian. “A wife knows. My heart still beats because his does, and my soul is still locked in battle for his. This is why I hold on to him and always will. I love you. All of you.”
Entwining my arm with his, I set my hand over his heart, protecting him from all that threatened to take mine—husband, father, lover, and beast—from me. My face rested against his; a tear slipped from my eye, running into his, catching in his lashes.
I held onto him even after he let go.
* * *
My eyes sprang open and I popped up, as though I were merely a marionette and my strings had been pulled in a violent yank, despite the elephant-sized weight pressing down on my chest.
What time was it?
The stars were still burning in a black velvet sky, in high contrast to the snow that seemed to be falling even harder. Still late.
Brando’s fingertips found my bare back, and his touch was a comfort, a warm presence in a chilled room. I still couldn’t catch my breath, though, and my fingers clutched the comforter, looking for something to hold on to.
“Scarlett.”
