Mariano waved a hand. “Does not matter now,” he said in Italian.
Meaning…the hand was dead.
My tears came fast and hot, the water washing them away, but he sensed it. Or he had scented it. He turned on me so fast, I almost fell backwards. He caught me with one arm. His eyes were as wild as his hair. I did not know what to do, except to reach out to him. To fix his hair. To wash him. To heal him.
He caught me before I could. My wrist was a prisoner in his hold.
Our eyes searched each other’s.
“Let me do this,” I whispered. “For you. I am your wife.”
“My healer.”
I nodded, pointing to my chest with my free hand. “Only me.”
“Solo tu,” he repeated, his eyes lingering until he released me.
I breathed out a trembling breath, reaching for the loofah I had bought for him at the store. I soaped it up, and in some areas gently, and others not so much, I washed the blood from his skin. I avoided his back. It needed to be cleaned under more sanitary conditions. I washed his hair for him, directing him to set his head in a certain angle so the dirty water could not touch his wound.
“You,” he said, nodding to my loofah, going for it.
I went to stop him, but he shook his head.
“My honor.”
My throat was tight as I closed my eyes and allowed him to wash me. I was not sure what was happening between us, but it felt as if the tapestries of our lives were being stitched even tighter with thread that could not fray with time or be yanked out.
Hannah came to mind. The quilt she refused to take from her shoulders. Her warmth. The warmth she had lost when her husband and children were taken from her.
I understood it.
As life was made around us, each scene became a pattern, and each pattern made up the quilt of our life. She wore hers around her shoulders to remind her of the memories, to keep them all close, to feel the warmth she would never feel again from those missing from the life that was created between her and her husband out of love.
One day, we, too would wear the quilt we had stitched together.
My tears came harder.
We dried each other, and I was careful not to touch the long gash with the towel. I rummaged in the cabinet for the first aid kit I had purchased with the loofah sponges. The major work onthe cabin was not set to start until after winter, but we were still repairing what needed to be done to make the place habitable. I was thankful I had planned ahead. I used the clean gauze cloths to pat the fiery red of his skin dry, silently praying for my life’s healing, my mouth working as adamantly as my hands.
His palms were against the counter and he was almost leaning over it, his eyes on mine through the mirror. At the soft touch, he closed them. His breathing slowed. He was relaxing at my touch, although nothing had relaxed about his cock. It almost looked…painful, as if the hardness of it would rip through his skin.
I gently applied some antibiotic cream to his back. I would speak to Rio about antibiotics—perhaps Mariano should take them. Who knew where that damned leather strip had been.
Mariano’s eyes fluttered open.
“My wife,” he said in Italian, the tone almost questioning.
I shook my head. “Am I hurting you?”
“Nah,” he breathed out. “The only thing that could ever hurt me is you—the wordnocoming from your mouth. You trying to leave me.”
I caught that.
Tryingto leave me.
Our eyes seemed to lock even harder.
He gave me one sharp, slow nod.Tryto leave me. I could almost sense the grin coming from him at the thought. It was not a nice one. It was achallenge me and find outone.
