His heart owned mine.
His blood rushed through my veins.
His air flowed through my lungs.
He had invaded every secret place of mine and conquered them.
I broke first.
* * *
After breaking, he had carried me to the bed, setting me down. I had asked for a shower, but he shook his head, going for his clothes on the floor. He put his boxer briefs back on but handed me his long black shirt. It still smelled of a cold night spent in panic.
We lay facing each other, Mia a small bundle between us.
Clearing my throat, I reached out and traced the shape of his lips. They matched the strong bones and features of his face. Bold. Everything about him was bold.
Closing his eyes, he seemed to take one deep breath, then another.
“Talk to me, Brando,” I whispered.
In answer, he placed tender, warm kisses over my wedding rings. The sincere move felt like an apology.
“Tell me why, Brando.”
“For what I did. How I treated you. Last night was—” He cleared his throat. “Him being here—”
The words were almost impossible for him to get out. It was much easier when his body spoke for him.
“I wanted it, too,” I said, being completely honest. “I needed it as much as you did. The release. It’s our way of fighting and healing when words can’t go deep enough.”
He had planted a seed of trust in me that had taken root so strongly, it couldn’t be budged, but when something like this happened, one of those roots lifted from the ground, like during a mighty hurricane, making me feel its hold loosen a little.
Some part of me expected that he would always keep us safe, keep us close to him, since he promised it. But I also knew that he was human, one man, and life was unpredictable. Especially the one we lived.
“He didn’t—” he began, but I cut him off.
“No, he slept outside of the room.”
He nodded once. “You still smelled of me. My baby, she didn’t smell of him either.”
“I do and did. And no, he didn’t even hold her. I kept her close to me.”
“His shirt was outside of the room, Scarlett. On the floor.”
“I see,” my voice cracked. The shirt Brando had flung to the chair. It was the one he had found on the floor outside of the bedroom.
It was no secret that Brando and Vincenzo had a tremulous relationship. It was hit for hit. Somewhere in the space between, they could tolerate each other and come together in times of war.
I didn’t know the reason why Vincenzo had decided to poke him with a sharp stick, but he would have to answer for his behavior if Brando ever popped his chains. As it stood, I could feel their strain.
Leaning over, he kissed Mia gently on her forehead. Then he stood, coming to rest behind me, his arms cradling us both, his warm feet covering my cold ones. His heat radiated against the scratches on my back, made by the rough texture of the wall and his frantic pace, but nothing mattered but the three of us.
“Have mercy on my heart, my wife,” he said in Italian. He stuck his nose against the base of my skull, his lips finding my neck.
“Sempre,” I whispered, holding him closer, while keeping Mia just as close.
We were tangled in one another. Nothing but roots, hoping and praying that we would always continue to grow together.
