“Scarlatta.”
Rarely did he say my name in Italian, and even though it was one word, I knew what he was asking of me. It was the equivalent oftell me, but it was much nicer, much softer.
It was almost a plea.
“No,” I said. “There was a moment when—he was close. Then he—I can’t remember. I blacked out. When I came to, it couldn’t have been long, and you were there, standing in the doorway. But, no, you came in and—” I stopped, wonderingwhathe’d seen. “Did you…?” I bit my lip and instantly regretted it. The split reopened, only a thin veil of skin keeping the tender flesh together.
“No,” was all he said, his eyes refusing to move from the gash. “Let me—”
I took his hand and placed it close to my lip, and he gently wiped the blood with his trembling finger, a look on his face I never wanted to see again.
The monster—Cesare, I made myself think his name, remember that he was a man, not a monster—couldn’t come close to breaking me, nor could anyone else. As long as the monsters of the world had nothing of mine to hold over me, there was nothing to bend to.
But this man?
This man could break me with a look alone.
And did.
“Brando?” I whispered, close to tears.
If I were going to break, I’d break on him, knowing he’d keep me from falling apart.
Maja had once told me that being married meant having a lifelong companion. It took situations such as these for me to taste the truth in her words.
Brando was my true companion, and I was his. Two halves to a whole that were separated before birth.
It wasn’t lifelong for us, though; it spanned beyond the reach of time.
Transcendent.
It took him the span of five heartbeats to answer me.
“La mia vita. Mia moglie.”My life. My wife.
“Kiss me,” I whispered.
He stopped me when I went to wipe the blood from my mouth. Staring at me with bloodshot eyes, he shook his head. He wasn’t denying me, but then again, he was—he was worried about hurting me.
“You won’t,” I said. “Bacia tua moglie.” My eyes met his, resolved, but my heart pleaded,don’t be afraid to touch me.
That hurt me more than Cesare’s fists ever could. He was refusing to allow me to feel the guilt he couldn’t hide in his eyes.
I refused his guilt because it didn’t belong.
I simply wanted him.
His resolve was strong, though, his convictions even stronger, and he refused to move.
Taking his wrists in my hands, feeling the steady pulse, I squeezed. “Remember the day I left early to go to church? You found me and brought me home?”
“Yeah.” It was just a breath.
“I heard—in the silence. I heard the truth.He is yours to…depend on.And I did. You found me. You saved me.” I looked down, away from him. “You gave the men an order to listen to me?”
I knew they wouldn’t have responded to me as they had, when I ordered them not to shoot Burgess or Cesare, if someone hadn’t given them the ordertolisten to me if something were to happen.
He nodded. “The kingdom is not only run by the wise king,” he said in Italian. “The king is wise because he knows it. The queen is his armorto the soul. I know it, as sure as I know it’s your air that keeps me breathing.”
