“And?” I prompted, tilting my head sideways.
“To check you don’t have nightmares.”
“I don’t. I mean…not anymore,” I ground out.
Again with this stupid,stupidpang of sympathy. I’d been so good this entire weekend, keeping it at surface level with him. And nowthis.
“No.” He grabbed the wine bottle, topping off my glass. “But that’s because you’re in denial about what happened. Find a good therapist when you settle down at your new place. Fuck knows you need one.”
“Well, if it isn’t my knight in shining bulletproof vest.” I crossed my arms over my chest, sitting back. “Don’t pretend to care.”
My snark was my shield. It protected me from real conversation, which might lead to honesty, which might result in—God forbid—vulnerability.
He put his smoke out, scowling at the ashtray. “If I didn’t care about your happiness, you’d be married to me by now, popping out babies left and right. I spared you.”
“You’d marry me after what I’ve done to you?”
“In a heartbeat.” His gaze, dark as his soul, held mine from across the table. “Nothing would kill you more than sucking my cock at the end of every day and making my dinner.”
He was right. I was pretty sure if he made me marry him, I’d poison him.
“You almost forced me into marriage with a stranger,” I accused. “How is that better?”
“It’s not.” He looked deep in thought, rubbing a finger along his chin. “I wanted to hurt you, to punish you for not choosing me. If Stefano caged you, I could live with myself knowing you were miserable, just as long as I didn’t have to witness it every day.”
An unfamiliar feeling clogged my throat. Intense sadness for what we’d become.
“I speculated you were the groom.” I smiled, feeling tears burning my eyes again.Goddammit. I’d spent the last decade numb to everything around me. How could he undo so much in one stupid weekend?
Achilles smiled back. “We’d have made a terrible couple.”
“A recipe for disaster.” I agreed. “Harley and the Joker.”
He shook his head. “You’re no sidekick, Piccola Fiamma. You’re the main event. Always were.”
A tear slid down my cheek, and Achilles reached and scooped it with his index finger. For the millionth time, I loathed the simple fact I couldn’t tell him the truth about what had happened that fateful day.
That it wasn’t that I didn’t love him.
I loved him too much.
I knew his only chance to get the happiness he deserved was by getting rid of me. I was faulty. Broken. So I made the decision for him.
And spent the last eleven years going from hating myself for making it to hating him for punishing me for it.
“How’s your timer going?” I cleared my throat and looked away. Achilles never let anyone stare at his face for too long. He didn’t like his scars and made a conscious effort not to be in the same room with his nephews, Nero and Ciro, worried he’d scare them.
“Didn’t put one on this time. I wanted us to have one real date. No deadline.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Torture you, mainly. Is it working?”
“Yeah,” I admitted. It hurt to see this side of Achilles. Laid-back and almost friendly. It was easier to think about him as the asshole who’d killed all my hookups and monitored my lifein retaliation for what I’d done to him when we were teenagers. Now, I was reminded that there was more to him than a cold-blooded murderer. “Can you take me home?”
He stood and offered me his hand.
We walked out of the restaurant looking like a normal, loved-up couple.
