Another time, another place—we had more pressing issues to deal with.
“To eveninsinuatethat I can’t feel you...lessens what we share. You’re in—no.” I shook my head. “Youaremy blood.”
“Tell me,” he said as a tear slipped down his cheek—big and slow—then another, until steady streams ran in a flow. Still languid, though, as if it was blood he shed instead of water. “Tell me how you could do thisto me.” His fisted hand came up and pounded against his chest, right over his heart.
My first instinct was to go to him, to try to solve this with physical touch. Skin against skin, patching up our hemorrhaging wounds. It wasn’t quite that simple this time, though. And if he rejected me—which he would—I almost cowered in my seat at the mere thought of it. More afraid of him spurning me than I had been of Nemours. Of any of the situations I had found myself in over the years.
No, he had to come to me.
“I had no choice,” I whispered. “None.”
“You did,” he said, his voice even. “There’s always more than one. You picked the wrong choice, for all the wrong reasons. You stole from me what I can never get back. The honor of defendingmywife!”
His eyes were full of accusations, of resentment that came with the choice. But it had become clear that my own protective shield was up, and I was ready to defend myself from his rage, from his wrong understanding.
“There’s more than one of us willing to die for the other in this relationship!” I shot back. “I’ll be damned if—”
He advanced on me, not giving me a chance to move. In three long strides he had me by the shoulders, then hauled me up from the chair and brought my back against the house.
My heart pounded in my chest, and the only reason I stood was because he kept me upright—I was so slick with sweat that the moisture made my thin clothes stick to me, as if I had just put them on after a bath without drying first.
My eyes searched his, almost frantic. His were steadfast, refusing to give me an ounce of reprieve from his wrath, and were hotter than the blinding sun. The urge to look away from him grew stronger with each passing second, but there was no doubt he was going to make me sweat even more before this was over.
This time, he wasn’t giving in until he received answers.
“You want the truth,” I said, my voice low. “The truth is that you would have had to choose between me and one of your children!” I tried to push against his chest, but he snatched my wrists and pinned one to each side of my head.
He couldn’t seem to move after that. Not for a while. He stared at me, studying, studying, trying to comprehend the truth. Then suddenly, his grip grew even tighter, and I made a strangled noise. He released my wrists but not my body from his hulking presence.
“Repeat that,” he said.
“You heard me!”
“Which one of my children?”
“Matteo,” I said, feeling the same urge to run far, far away even at the mere thought. “He—” I shook my head. “He took my baby once before! I’d never allow him to—I couldn’t. I knew what it was going to come down to. I refused! And I’d do it again! He—he was at the school. Staring right at my baby. Kids were everywhere, so I made a show of leaving. I made sure he saw that I left alone. He followed. It was me he wanted. No one else. Not even you. He was going to kill you with the rock—the rock you bought me for my garden years ago!So I made a deal with him after he hit you. I’d go without trouble if he left you to suffer—suffer without me.”
Close your eyes, Scarlett. Close them.Escape the memories.No,no, closing them wouldn’t help. In the darkness, I saw Nemours’ face, even smelled him—the urge to kill wafting off him a bitter, putrid scent. The thought of the rock crashing into Brando’s skull smashing my heart into countless pieces.
Opening my eyes wasn’t much better. I couldn’t escape my husband’s face either. The look of heartbreak was so profound that it made me whimper.
He’d had no idea, none, and I couldn’t tell him.Couldn’t.There had been no choice—my son came first. End of story.
He looked away from me, giving me a bit of space. Even though he didn’t move, freed from his intense gaze, I gained a little freedom. I hadn’t realized that I was holding my breath until I started to feel lightheaded. I had to catch up, gulp air, until finally a sense of normalcy returned.
It wasn’t for long.
We weren’t done.
“All right.” He nodded, then cleared his throat. He had come to terms with something—realizing there wasn’t much of a choice. “Your decision wasn’t only about me.”
“Bran—”
“You tried to die on me.” He shook his head, then turned his face back to mine, piercing me with his glare. “You tried to fucking leave me.”
Here was where things became trickier than before.
During the day, thoughts about this stole my attention when everything was quiet. Even when it wasn’t, the thoughts still came.
