We do not speak. Not with words anyway.
His hands say everything—every touch, every stroke whispers of love and worry and something rawer… scared.
He slowly turns me in his arms to face him. As his eyes meet mine, I can see them burning. He’s not the cold, fierce man from the warehouse anymore. He is my Dorian, now, revealing his vulnerability.
My hand shakes as I put it on his chest, right over his heart, and I feel it all—pounding heartbeats, diluted rage, and a new, desperate promise.
He covers my hand with his, holding it tight against his heart. With his other hand, he gently cups my jaw, his thumb stroking my skin. Then his forehead touches mine and I feel his eyes close, both of us holding on to this tiny pause in the world.
Minutes pass. Maybe hours. I don’t know. Don’t care.
He finally steps back and turns off the water. He wraps me in a huge, soft towel, and takes a moment to wrap another around his waist. Then he lifts me in his arms as if I weigh nothing and carries me straight to bed.
He tucks the blanket up around me, and I can see him struggling, fighting for words that can't stay silent any longer.
"I’ve never been so afraid in my whole life, Della. Seeing you in that chair, not moving..." his voice breaks.
"Just, hold me." I whisper, grabbing his arm.
His eyes light up with hope and relief. He slips in beside me and pulls me to his chest so close I forget where I end and he begins.
That’s all I need.
He buries his face in my hair, and I feel his body shudder with a sob trapped somewhere deep in his chest.
"Della, I am so sorry. For... for all of it. For everything." he rasps, his voice thick with emotion.
I don't have the strength to answer. Nor the desire.
I just hold on to his arm wrapped around me, anchor myself to him, and let the world dissolve.
There is no warehouse, no fear, no past—just his arms around me, the one place in the universe I feel truly, completely safe.
Chapter 26
THE HARDEST TEST
To hold on or to let go
Dorian
I barely slept.
Every time I closed my eyes, that horrific image of Della head down in that chair, slammed into my mind. Then, my brain would supply its own fresh hell: the thoughts of what she went through five years ago, alone. The guilt is a physical thing, chewing on my insides, and remorse is a bitter acid in my throat.
Watching her sleep peacefully and breathing so soft, the ruby –she wears it– resting on her skin was the thing that tempered the demons inside. Holding her in my arms, her body molded to mine gives me the hope that nightmares are over and we can start a new day, a new chapter.
As if the Universe is eavesdropping on my thoughts, the Californian sun enters the window bringing light and something more… faith in a new beginning.
Her hair, spread across the pillow, seems to catch fire in the morning light and her skin is glowing.
I feel her move and I know she is waking up.
“Mornin’,” I whisper in her hair, my voice a rough rasp, desperate to prolong this single moment of peace.
She tenses. Then, slowly, she turns to face me. Her eyes are wide, bruised, and... guarded.
The soft, open Della from the lake house is gone. The woman who came to Chicago is back.
