The next moment my entire world scorched red, before the void swallowed me whole. Still, I could hear the sound of my husband stealing the monster’s heart out of his chest while it beat.
34
Scarlett
I wasn’t sure where we were, only that we were in another cabin, this one much nicer, and I was safe with him, cradled in his arms.
Safe.
The word hung in my mind, the only one I could cling to—my children were safe, my husband was safe, I was safe.
He allowed Uncle Tito to mend me as best as he could. Sutures, bandages, a dose of antibiotics. The old doctor’s mutterings were lost on me but consumed by my beast. His eyes were still as dark as night, dilated into oblivion.
Neither of us had spoken, not a word since I’d last seen him at the chalet in Switzerland.
I hadn’t heard him speak after we left the other place. He only made threatening noises when another man attempted to come near me. He’d cradled me even closer, a low growl constantly vibrating in his chest, trembling in his throat, his muscles tensed in preparation to lunge.
After Uncle Tito did what he could for me, he insisted on suturing Brando’s side. He refused at first with a shake of his head, and then silence, to the irritation of his uncle.
Silent tears slipped down my cheeks, and seeing this, he gave in. He refused any anesthetic, though, intent on feeling each one.
The knife had gone in deep.
So many sutures along his side. Uncle Tito muttered to himself that he was lucky he hadn’t been killed.
All mended, he carried me into the bathroom, even after Uncle Tito told him not to. Careful not to get my stitches wet—I took seven to the chest, not nearly as many as he did—he sat me in the bathtub.
The water was hot, every inch of me sore and bruised, and the memory of my last bath still as fresh as the physical wounds on my body.
Even more so, those still bled openly.
I wanted this. Craved it, in fact. He knew.
I’d been abducted before in the name of the Faustifamiglia.I had been assaulted with fists, slapped with hands, bent over in a field full of vipers to be whipped in front of a murderous gang of men, but I’d never been naked in front of another man before. I’d never been touched gently and then beaten until I bled. I’d never been force-fed feelings—feelings that were so hard to make sense of.
Brando watched me as though I might dissipate with the steam. He knew that my soul still hovered.
As clearly as I could see myself in the mirror, horrid as the reflection was, he could see me even clearer, go even deeper, dive into waters I kept hidden even from myself.
He was in the storm, the life preserver ready, without me even realizing I needed it.
I let myself go, then, closing my eyes, allowing him to dry me, to dress me in a thin robe that wouldn’t lay heavily on my aching flesh. Brando had refused the anesthetic; I refused anything that might harm the baby. When I thought of all he’d been through already, a sob that was powerful enough to crack me in two threatened to take me into waters I wasn’t sure my husband was able to swim.
Then we were in the bedroom, listening to each other breathe.
He thought I’d fallen asleep or convinced himself I had.
I hadn’t.
I stood in that place between sleep and awake. A place an exhausted parent knows well. I hovered in the realm of sleep, but with one ear open to the needs of the heart beating outside of my body.
A baby is born; so is a mother’s sixth sense. Perhaps in my case, it was a seventh sense.
I kept quiet, unable to move even if I wanted to. It was better for both of us if I did. He wasn’t nearly ready to hear my confessions; I wasn’t nearly ready to spill them.
The carnage surrounding us both told the sordid tale without words.
I’m wounded. You’re wounded.But we’re both still here, and our children are safe. That’s enough for now.
