“My husband,” I barely got out.
“Yeah,” he breathed in my mouth. “Say it again.”
“My husband,” I barely got out.
“My wife,” he said, stilling, rolling his teeth over his bottom lip, causing it to glisten when the fireworks started up again. “My wife wants time away from me.”
“N—” I was about to say no, but he started with the punishing rhythm again, and that small fire in the pit of my stomach seemed to grow hotter, and it made me nervous.
If the small fire was what I thought it was…
I shoved against his chest. “Not so hard.”
He stilled, his eyes on mine, but in a different way.
Questioning.
“Not so hard,” I repeated in a whisper. “Please.”
His face transformed.
I was not sure who I was seeing.
This man…he was my husband, but not.
A monster had reared its head from the depths of his light eyes, and it was aimed at me, or…someone he could not see in that moment.
“My wife wants slow,” he said, and he started moving slower, thrusting so deep, I could barely catch my breath.
If the rough pace was torture, this was…a slow form of it. It was not physically hurting, but I could feel all he was giving me. His hurt. When I orgasmed, it ripped through me, almost feeling as though it was responsible for the cave in the center of my chest, where my heart should have been. He came inside of me with a growl, then he set me on my feet, not even caring that I slid to the floor, his seed dripping down my leg.
He fixed his bowtie, the feeling from him as cold as ever. I did not say anything to him as he went for the door.
Until I realized what he must have thought when he considered my words…not so hard, as if I was sore, and the bruises on my body from my mamma’s hands.
“Mariano!” I jumped up, tilting to the side, having to stop and take a breath before I could run for him. I was a breath away from missing his arm. I tugged. “Marito mio,” I breathed out. “It is not what you think!”
“You are sore,” he said in Italian, clearing his throat. His shoulders rolled. “You have a bruise on your hip.”
I looked away from him, biting my lip for a second. My cheeks heated. “You are just…big,” I whispered. “We have not made love,” or whatever that was, “in a while.”
While it was the truth, I was more concerned about the small fire. I did not want to share it with him yet. I did not know if it was true, and if it was, I knew he would never let me go. We were almost there.
He rolled his shoulders again. “Tell me. The bruise.”
His eyes missed nothing when it came to me.
My cheeks heated even hotter. “My mamma…” Deep breath. “She whipped me.”
He slowly turned toward me. “Repeat that.”
I lifted my hands in a pleading gesture. “She was having one of her…episodes. It was raining. She was stressed and needed one of her shots after.” I refused to tell him what she had told me, about my sister being pushed, when it was me who had been shoved.
It would all come out when we came face to face after the day of the maze. I was not going to react to my sister’s story, of him and their time at his place in Grosseto, until I spoke to my husband first. If it was true, I was already gone. I could not deal with him hurting me in this way. Not after what we shared.
He barely touched my hip, but I felt it. It was a caress so soft, it made me close my eyes, a shiver rocking my body. When I opened them, my husband was walking away from me.
That night, Remo was replaced by Oscar to keep guard at my door. Signor Dandolo was there for the switch.
