He shivered, moving a piece of hair stuck to my neck aside. He kissed over my pulse, whispering “mine” over and over in Italian, in English, in our secret shared language—only his lips to the source of my life allowing his vow to penetrate my blood, rushing through my veins, ending in my heart—where it would stay for always.
Lightning lit up our room, thunder rattled our entire shelter, and it sounded as if the rain was coming down hard enough to fall through the roof. The ocean outside our door seethed, the palms bowing to the insane wind, and I took an easy breath, relaxing in my husband’s protective arms.
We were together.
No interruptions.
No time.
Onlyus.
All was right in the world.
“Whoa, Nelly!”
My husband wrapped his arms around me tighter. His breath fanned over my shoulder as he chuckled.
“This woman—” I used my chin to point at myself in the mirror “—is not me.” I cleared my throat. It was scratchy, as if I had been screaming for weeks straight. Perhaps I had.
It went with the woman who stared back at me in the mirror, the man behind her too gorgeous for words, although he was next to me all this time in the bedroom. In the, er, bathroom as well. Also the kitchen, and the porch during the storm.
Mariano took a step back, holding his hands up. “Who are you?” He narrowed his eyes. “I was under the impression you were my wife!”
I flung a roll of toilet paper at him and he cracked up, the masochist. I rolled my eyes, thinking the soft paper would probably be bruised after bouncing off his chest and falling to the floor. His muscles seemed harder than the stone. I turned my eyes back to the mirror, asking myself the same question, hesitant to touch the skin on my face.
Who is this woman?
It was the first time in a week—two, more—that the light of day brought clarity to everything around us. This woman was me, but…not. I looked completely wild. I was not sure if my hair could be tamed. It was a snarled mess. My eyes had a bright look to them, as if I was feverish. My skin was still pale, and the patches of love marks and bruises stood out more than they should. My lips were rosy from the nonstop kissing.
Perhaps I was thinner? I turned to the side. I did not have a bump yet, but my stomach felt…tight, as if it was about to give in to the growing life inside of me.
The growing life inside of me.
Our wild child.
I sighed at this.
My eyes met Mariano’s through the mirror.
I smiled at him. “I look like a truly feral woman.”
His face became serious. He pointed at his heart. “Mine.”
“Yours,” I breathed out. “All of me,Marito mio.”
He cleared his throat. “No bath,” he said. “I’m taking you someplace special today.”
“We get to leave?” My eyes widened.
He exploded with laughter, shaking his head. “A fucking trip,” he muttered to himself as he left me alone for the first time in a week, two, more. I did not like the way it made me feel, as if he had pulled out of me, and we were separate again.
This was why we both seemed to constantly pull each other back. We could not stand to be two, only one. My husband had just walked into the next room, and I was missing him as if he had left for months.
Before, I would have called myself pathetic, groaned, fought with my heart and soul about how wrong it was to be so dependent on him. Before Mariano Fausti, I did not even believe in love at first sight. I did not deny it either. I just did not consider it for myself.
Mariano Fausti made a believer out of me.
My attraction to him was instant—my heart and soul knew it before I did. It was my mind that fought. It was…overwhelming, the magnitude of feelings I had for him the moment our eyes met. Instinctually, I knew my life would never be the same.
